Witnessed here in Time and Blood
by whistle.the.silver
Summary: When Shell Cottage receives a motley group, Fleur and Bill do their best to ensure their safety. In the weeks that follow, wounds are healed and plans are concocted. Fleur and Hermione find themselves coming to a new understanding of one another.
1. Prologue

Dear reader,

The following is a work of fiction which borrows the characters and world created by J.K. Rowling. The Warner Brothers' company also holds financial interests in these works. I am not affiliated with either of them but I feel I owe a great deal to Ms. Rowling, given the many hours of pleasure she's provided me over the years. Aside from keeping me safely off the streets and perhaps improving my written English, I do not stand to profit from this story and have no intention of making any attempt. I also owe a debt to one of the greatest living poets, Mr. Leonard Cohen. I use phrases of his for chapter titles with the utmost respect.

The purpose of writing this tale is my own amusement and perhaps, the enjoyment of one or two others. It's not a very useful hobby, but then neither is philately. It's a story that formed after one too many long drives, quiet afternoons at work and pints of cider. I'm not sure why I'm uploading this where other people can see it but it's probably because I enjoy reading other stories about these two. The more the merrier, I suppose.

As life is all about learning, I'm always interested to hear what people think. If you read this, enjoy it and review it, I'd be most pleased to hear what you have to say. However, if you read it, like it and go about your daily business without doing so, I'll hold no grudges. If you read it and dislike it (though please, you don't have to continue if you think it's a stinker) then tell me why! It will, hopefully, be an educational experience for us all.

However, there is one proviso for this request. If you read this story and dislike it because of the themes of same-sex attraction discussed, please keep your feelings to yourself. I don't care why you find the subject distasteful, I've heard it all before and likely from much more articulate sources. There are hundreds of thousands of stories out there for you; please don't waste your time reading mine. Of course, if you feel I've handled the theme badly or you disagree with my portrayal, that's different.

Still with me? Good. Fantastic. I hate the fact that the previous paragraph was necessary. But we're all grown-ups here, at last. At least, I hope we are because this story contains mature themes. Some of these are wonderful, fun and marvellous events one should aspire to achieve. Others are, regrettably, horrible and nasty. But such is life and the latter are, in this tale, rarer than the former. If you are particularly sensitive to gore, violence or any of the evils we inflict on one another, please proceed with caution.

Please enjoy this story. If you have stories of your own, tell them.

Yours sincerely,  
>J<p>

**Prologue**

The grey sea hissed and growled relentlessly, roiling and raging against the dark sand and jagged black stone of the Cornish coast. Sheets of misty rain rolled in with startling rapidity when the wind was right only to vanish just as quickly each time it changed. That same wind howled through the battered grass blanketing the dunes and whipped the heads off heaving waves. Icy fingers of arctic air sought out cracks in window frames and door jambs, occasionally hurling frozen pellets against roof and root alike. Birds hid their heads beneath their wings, creatures curled in their dens and people shut their curtains; none willing to face the onslaught. The shore was dark for miles around, the only light shining from a little cottage which stood on an outcropping of weathered stone. The cottage was squat and hunched, save for an overly tall chimney stack. Shells had been pressed into the wet plaster of its walls long ago, earning it its name.

Shell Cottage stood with its back to the storm, weathering as it had a thousand others in its long history. It had seen higher tides, stronger winds, fiercer squalls and longer tempests than this little blast of bad weather. Wind, rain and cold nights had long been its companions.

These immutable facts had caused the original builders of the humble watch house (for before the Wizarding World had been hidden, a magical beacon had shone there) to make a great effort to construct something to withstand these dread forces. The walls were thick, made from black stone and strong mortar; the deceptive fragility of their decorative shells belied their solidity. Grey, unwashed wool had been crammed into cavities where masonry met timber, around the roof joists, windows and doors. Though it was usually muffled, the boom of the tide was ever present inside its walls, loud, sonorous and doleful.

Despite all this, Shell Cottage was a warm and mostly peaceful place. The ceilings hung low, wooden affairs stuffed with straw and entire dynasties of mouse corpses. The windows were small and shuttered inside and out, with the additional protection of thick curtains in most rooms. The doors were similarly equipped though, at the time our tale begins, those drapes hadn't been needed for several weeks. The kitchen, sitting room, parlour and two of the three bedrooms featured fireplaces to defend against the cold. It was before one of these (specifically, in the sitting room) that Fleur and William Weasley found themselves one dismal spring night.

Fleur (nee Delacour) was curled on the lumpy sofa, a blanket around her legs and a steaming mug in her hands. A leather bound book floated steadily in front of her face, pages turning at regular intervals. The firelight painted her hair golden, rather less unearthly than its usual silvery blonde. In the hearth, green and blue flames consumed salty drift wood and danced merrily in her dark blue eyes. She was an unusually beautiful woman and seemed especially lovely sitting reading contentedly in her home.

Bill, as William was known, stretched in his chair, shrugging one aching shoulder up and rolling it around. He had been a wonderfully handsome man in his youth, before a malicious attack left his face, neck, arms and back riven with deep, cruel scars. He had let his dark red hair grow, the better to hide his disfigurement, and it seemed alive with fire that night. His eyes were blue too, but where Fleur's seemed almost faceted, Bill's were flat and as pale as the winter sky. They closed in brief pain before he eased himself out of his arm chair, padding over to the fire place and lifting the kettle.

"Hot drop, love?"

"No, thank you," she said, smiling at her husband. "I have plenty."

_Sometimes,_ he thought,_ I almost forget we're at war at all._

Bill grunted and topped his mug up with hot, strong tea. He mooched back to his chair and lifted his notebook, staring at the last few sentences he'd written. Sometimes he almost forgot, indeed, but never for long. He sipped his tea and flipped back a few pages, frowning at his words, searching for some clue or forgotten spell that would give them an edge and allow them to fight back once more. He'd spent many nights in the same chair, engaged in the same pursuit. Nothing useful had come to him and he knew he was not unique in this. No member of the Order of the Phoenix had yet found such a miraculous thing.

The Order was close to collapse, there was no doubt. With Dumbledore and Moody dead; with traitorous Snape; with their one hope vanished and the rest scattered and hunted, what path lay before them? They'd all sworn to give their lives preventing the spread of that which was now ubiquitous. It seemed a mere matter of time before their oaths would be collected.

His heart clenched. The unfairness of if all gripped him once again and he bit the inside of his scarred cheek. Fleur did not fail to notice, but let Bill have his moment uninterrupted. She knew well enough what occupied his mind. Her thoughts were dark as well. She too had been searching old spells and lore, seeking an advantage. She too had failed to find one.

She let her frustration build before gritting her teeth and taking what she intended to be a calming breath. It came as unusually harsh and caused her book to tremble and drop into her lap, startling Bill.

He fumbled with his tea and shot a wary look her way.

"What?"

"Ennui!" she groaned, flopping against the arm of the sofa. "Perhaps we should visit your mother. She always finds plenty for us to do."

Bill eyed her with amusement but shook his head dubiously. Fleur and his mother were often a volatile combination; a powder keg of forced politeness and discomfort. "I think not. Do you want to get a start on the garden tomorrow, perhaps?"

He, like his wife, found free time near unbearable at the best of times and current times were far from the best. Shell Cottage had been near ruin when they arrived and its current state of comfort reflected the amount of time in which they'd had nothing more productive to do than worry and decorate. They found the distraction and small domestic victories kept them from utter despair. The isolation was hard to bear at times but both knew the importance of an easily defended safe house. The fact that access on foot was possible from one narrow slope alone made up for the effort and loneliness.

Fleur opened her mouth to reply but suddenly snapped it shut, a strange expression crossing her fine features. Before Bill could even form the thought to pose a question, she leapt over the back of the sofa, drawing her wand and racing for the back, and only, door. She summoned her shoes and they met her running feet. Bill roared and threw himself up, mug shattering forgotten on the stones of the hearth.

Fleur felt keenly the intrusion against her wards as she burst into the damp, chilly night and was sure Bill felt the same against his. Her mouth was dry with fear but anger sat hot in her chest. Who dared invade her home? She saw several figures standing out on the sand at the bottom of the hill, just beyond the tide line. Her heart slammed against her ribs at the sight of pale blonde hair in the dim light and she slowed her steps.

"Gabrielle?" she whispered, horror replacing anger. What had happened? She found her stride again and flew down the sand, through the sharp marram grass. She could hear Bill's heavy strides thudding behind her, dropping away as she outpaced him.

She hadn't gone much farther when the face beneath the pale hair resolved itself into a grubby girl, wide-eyed and wild with worry. She was standing beneath the arm of a terribly old man who was dirtier and skinnier than the average scarecrow. A tall, handsome man leaned an arm around his waist, taking much of his weight. As she neared, she recognised (to her enormous relief) Luna Lovegood.

"Luna!" she called, throwing normal caution to the wind. Her wards were breached; whatever magic had accomplished that was neither subtle nor gentle. They needed to flee, and quickly.

"Fleur?" she replied, some surprise in her voice.

"It's me," she said, coming to a stop on the wet sand. "In the Triwizard year, you loaned my sister…?"

"A brandynug charm, for the drafts," she said, smiling faintly. "Hello. Thank goodness we got here safely."

Bill had thumped to a stop beside her, his wand drawn. "_How_ did you get here? What's going on?"

"Mr Dobby brought us," Luna explained, much relieved to be in a safe place again, "he's a house elf of uncommon courage."

"Look," the boy interrupted, "he needs help, please."

"That's Ollivander," Bill said, with wonder. "We all thought he was dead."

"Well, yeah, don't speak too soon."

Bill and Fleur glanced at one another and she nodded. "The spare room." He stepped forward and slid an arm under Ollivander's shoulders and knees, motioning for the young man to do the same. They moved quickly towards the house and Fleur, casting a last, uneasy look around, turned on her heel to do the same.

"I wouldn't," Luna said quietly, sadly. "Mr Dobby should be back soon. There's more to come." 


	2. And Now the Paraclete

Dear Reader,

Please bear in mind all I mentioned in the prologue. This part deals with several distressing topics which some people may find upsetting. Though, honestly, I don't know anyone who wasn't upset by certain scenes in The Deathly Hallows. This being a story featuring Hermione, these scenes are discussed but never with the intention to disturb or upset. I trust you know yourself better than I do and will proceed accordingly.

Yours sincerely,

J

**Part One: And now the Paraclete**

Fifteen minutes later, Fleur found herself in the back bedroom with Luna and an unconscious Hermione Granger. The girl was covered in dirt, sweat and blood. Her breathing was quick and sounded reedy, the latter worrying Fleur immensely. She raised her wand and drew the grime and gore from her to get a better view of the extent of her injuries. She watched blood well slowly from a nasty cut in Hermione's neck and she laid a bare hand on it, closing her eyes.

"She is bleeding into her neck," she said, worriedly. She knew the greatest risk in a neck wound (after exsanguination) was that blood would gather beneath the skin and muscle, compressing the wind pipe. Death would quickly follow. She could feel the cut, a nick in a vein that oozed sluggishly into the surrounding tissues. A good volume had already gathered, some escaping through the wound in her skin but more moving down and sideways, pooling in the small spaces there. She closed her eyes and muttered for several minutes until she felt a gout of wetness wash over her hand and heard Luna gasp. She opened her eyes to the sight of blood and clot, a macabre contrast to Hermione's pale skin and her pristine sheets.

"Go and fetch my bag, please. Bill will have it. Tell him to warm Mr Ollivander slowly."

Luna left and Fleur washed the clotted, dark blood from Hermione's neck. She laid her hand on her patient again, closing her eyes and letting herself perceive the wound. After long moments of concentration, she began to whisper, drawing torn flesh and vessel back together. She started at the bottom and worked upwards towards the skin, listening as the flesh cried out in pain. When it was healed, she opened her eyes and regarded it carefully. The wound was still bright red and easily perceived. She decided to leave it for a while; the flesh was thin there and had suffered enough tonight. Cosmesis could wait.

She laid a hand on Hermione's chest, counting her breaths and the rate of her heart beat. The witch was breathing comfortably, with none of the previous reedy quality. Her heart was fast but beating evenly and strongly. Satisfied that her patient was not about to expire, she felt along her limbs and neck for fractures. She was relieved to find none and steeled herself to undertake a thorough inventory of her patient's wounds.

She then stripped the other young woman from her filthy clothes, shaking bits of crystal from them as she went. There were several superficial scrapes from the glass and many long, cruel incisions. There were bite marks and bruises. There were even several shallow stab wounds puncturing her slight frame, though none damaged any vital structures. Her fingers were cut, red and bruised. The backs of her hands and forearms bore yet more wounds. Her ribs were badly bruised and Fleur felt at least two fractures on initial examination. Pity and despair welled in her chest, bringing tears to her eyes. She heard footsteps on the hall and covered her patient with a sheet.

"Bill sent this, but he's kept the Skele-Gro. Griphook needs it."

Fleur nodded, blinking back tears. Now was not the time to go to pieces, she had work to do. "That is fine. We can wait a while."

There was nothing to do but heal her wounds and wait for her to awaken. If Fleur were honest with herself, the thought terrified her. Not because of the remaining injuries, for they were minor, but their pattern hinted at vicious and terrible things.

* * *

><p>Several hours passed. The dull thud of Harry's spade sounded beneath the window sill in odd counter point to Luna's soft snores. Fleur had given the girl clean clothes and sent her to shower, healing her (thankfully) minor wounds quickly. She'd also seen to Ollivander and Griphook before returning to her vigil. The old man was weak and terribly malnourished. However, he wasn't grossly injured and she'd left Dean (she was glad to have a name for the lad) to help him with soup, bread and tea. There was little else to do but wait and see if he had the will to recover from his ordeal.<p>

The goblin had suffered awful abuse but she knew well how hardy the little creatures were. She'd often been called on to help her colleagues during her time in Gringott's. Griphook faced several painful days but she was sure that he'd be well soon enough, given rest and good food. He wasn't her favourite person; she'd always found him snide and condescending. She did not particularly want him staying in her home but she was not going to cast out an injured ally, no matter how much she disliked them.

She turned back to her current charge, fear carving the bottom from her stomach. Such wounds! Thankfully, the only potentially fatal injury inflicted had been quickly repaired. She had suffered a multiplicity of inflicted cuts, at least a couple of dozen. Most made been shallow, though that wouldn't have made them any less painful to bear. Somehow, she had also cracked four ribs and these would need further care once she awoke. Her chest and abdomen was badly bruised but Fleur had detected no sign of internal injury, for which she was immensely grateful for as they would have been far beyond her skills to heal.

Fleur shifted in her seat, willing her panic and exhaustion away. She wiped her eyes and stifled a yawn. Dawn was approaching and with it (she sincerely hoped) answers for those cuts and bites which, taken together, hinted at horrible abuse. A bruise meant nothing but four bruises at the back of her arm with one on the tender part near her armpit suggested a strong, rough grip. Some one had written a gruesome story on the slight woman and it enraged Fleur.

Hermione's breathing changed slightly and quietly, without a sound, her eyes snapped open. Golden in the lamp light and full of fear, they darted around the room, apparently not seeing her companion for many long moments. Fleur leaned forward, her hair catching the light, and Hermione pressed herself backwards, hands going to the mattress to pull herself upright.

"Wait!" Fleur hissed, wincing at the moan of pain Hermione let slip. "Please, you're hurt. Your ribs are cracked."

She quickly summoned several pillows, placing them against the bed board before gently pressing Hermione into them. "It's Fleur," she said attempting to soothe, "you're in Shell Cottage."

Wary, haunted eyes found hers but quickly flicked away. "Shell Cottage," she murmured. "Ron spent Christmas here, with you and Bill."

"Yes."

"He brought us here? Where's Harry? Did he leave Harry!" she asked, frowning. "I don't remember," she trailed off into a whisper. "I couldn't get away. I couldn't Apparate."

"An elf brought you, one named Dobby."

"He saved us all," Luna said, sitting on her bed and sleepily rubbing her eyes. "Good to see you awake, Hermione."

"Luna?" she gasped. "I, I don't understand… where? We, we," she began to tremble and Fleur touched her elbow. Shaking, Hermione grabbed her hand in a weak grasp, surprising the blonde somewhat. "We couldn't get out."

Luna quickly (for her) filled her friend in, Fleur listening eagerly though she didn't take her eyes off her patient. She didn't release Hermione's hand either, not even when she felt hot tears fall on her fingers. Her pyjamas were large on the other woman who seemed lost and childlike in them. There wasn't a scrap of spare flesh on her; the bones of her shoulders were plainly visible beneath the thin cotton. Earlier, Fleur had seen how her ribs stood out in sharp contrast, skin hollow between them. The cords of her wrist were prominent, as were the tendons on the back of her hand. Hermione had always been a slight girl but she appeared undernourished now, thin and weak.

As Luna spoke, the darkness of night lightened to grey and Fleur heard voices beneath the window. Evidently, the other blonde did as well, for she crossed to the glass and pulled back the curtain. She was silent for a long moment.

"I think we should go down now. Harry's almost finished."

Fleur bit her tongue, reluctant to let Hermione leave her bed. But she knew that while the needs of the living outweighed those of the dead, some wounds needed more than dittany and bandages to heal. She fetched Luna one of her warm coats and wrapped Hermione in her warmest jumper and a thick dressing gown. The young woman's eyes were full of tears and her narrow shoulders trembled. Her eyes were haunted in sunken, darkened sockets. She paused at the threshold of the door, shaking slightly.

_She does not want her friends to see her like this._

Overcome with pathos, Fleur placed both hands on those shaking shoulders and gently squeezed.

"Come along, Mr Dobby deserves a good send-off."

* * *

><p>After the little funeral, Fleur caught Bill's elbow and tugged him aside. His kind eyes were sad but hard with resolve. "Are the girls all right?"<p>

"I hope so," Fleur drew a deep breath. "I need to go into town once the shops open."

Bill opened his mouth to protest and Fleur raised an eloquent eyebrow, silencing him. Bill looked worried.

"Is that really necessary?"

"I certainly hope not," she replied, "but we don't have much time to decide. I'll go to Redruth."

Bill's frown deepened and he lifted a hand to Fleur's shoulder. "Are you all right? Get any sleep last night?"

She shrugged and shook her head. Bill sighed and pulled her into a quick hug. "Well, you look after yourself, right? I expect we're going to have a full house for a bit."

* * *

><p>After Harry, Hermione and Ron had ascended the stairs to see Griphook and Ollivander, against her wishes to her consternation, Fleur left her home and Apparated to a small copse just outside a quiet muggle town. She had to avoid Tinworth; it was full of magical folk and she was currently quite an undesirable person. She concentrated for a moment, running her hands through her long blonde hair. It darkened as she did, taking on a mousy brown hue. She closed her eyes and when she opened them, she knew they'd be a soft grey. She was dressed as a muggle and pulled a hat out of her pocket, pulling it over her ears. She didn't have the skill to change the shape of her face so wrapped a thick scarf around her neck, nestling into it.<p>

She started for the town, pulling on a pair of leather gloves as she went, thoughts drifting as she walked through cool spring air.

She was worried. Deeply worried. The jig was finally up regarding Ron and his illness. The forces of Voldemort finally gained the justification they needed to aggressively pursue one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain. Bill and herself had been warned to go to ground and not leave the safety of Shell Cottage. She had already sent word to her mother urging her to take Gabrielle out of school and send her to their grandmother for safe keeping. Part of her longed to go to them, to keep them safe herself and seek comfort from them, but a greater part knew that her duty lay in damp Britain at the front line of battle. She would not abandon Bill or Harry to fight alone. She would not abandon Hermione to whatever horrors she'd endured.

Fleur remembered vividly the night Ron had appeared at her door, face pale and bruised. He told a story of anger, fighting, jealousy and desertion. The boy's grief, guilt and remorse were all too apparent. He'd alluded to some malign influence and told them how he'd chased his friends for several days. After a brief run in with the Snatchers he had made his way to them. Bill had sighed and embraced him, calling him a stupid git softly and without malice. Her gentle, kind Bill had seen his brother's misery and had not added to it.

She however, had been furious with him. His cowardice, his pettiness and his selfishness had disgusted her. So what if Harry and Hermione had fallen in love with one another? As far as she could see, they were far better suited to one another than Hermione and Ron himself. The pair had a bond of love and fondness that anyone with eyes could see, though she perceived no sexual element to it. It was the same closeness that Ginny shared with the twins and Bill or she shared with Gabrielle.

She understood that he was young and had feelings for his friend. In such circumstances, his jealousy was understandable but his abandonment was still unforgivable. She valued loyalty, it was what kept her on these foreign shores. She'd made a promise in her heart, after the Triwizard Tournament, to help Harry and his cause in whatever manner she could. She'd seen poor Cedric dead with a look of utter terror on his handsome face and known then the truth of the Dark Lord's return. She'd seen the sadness and conviction in Harry's eyes and known the poor boy was to be targeted by the same murderous force.

He'd saved her precious sister because the idea of leaving a child alone in the cold green waters of the lake was inconceivable to him. He'd had no way of knowing that she was never in any danger. Fleur herself had not known Gabrielle was even there until Cedric had returned and spoken of a blonde girl. She remembered the horror dawning across his face when he saw her on the pier and not in the lake. They'd both been restrained from diving in as Dumbledore explained that their loved ones were not in, nor had ever been, in danger. She'd been utterly surprised to see _three_heads break the surface of the water and her heart had swollen with bittersweet joy. She'd been ashamed by her weakness and failure but the heroic efforts of Harry had delighted her. The fact that Gabrielle would have been all right even if Harry had left her was meaningless; he hadn't known that at the time and had risked his own skin to save her.

She'd never forget that, as long as she lived. She'd do what she could to help him and his mysterious quest, despite having no idea what he was up to. It irritated her but he'd been resolute in his refusal; there was no way he'd tell them. She had to do what she could and for now that involved taking care of them all, Hermione in particular. She reached the chemist's shop and felt pangs of nerves in her chest. She wasn't the best in dealing with muggles but knew that she had an important task to perform. The fact that she'd have to break a few Wizarding and muggle laws to accomplish this didn't concern her in the slightest. But her nerves were still pulled taught, her heart thumping in her chest.

Steeling herself, she walked in.

* * *

><p>Hermione lay on her side in her bed, aching. The duvet was snug around her and the little bedroom glowed red as the afternoon sun lit the curtains. She'd been trying to sleep but the pain in her ribs made it difficult. Fleur had examined her ribs after Dobby's funeral and explained to her that several had been broken. She'd said there was little to do; Skele-Gro could be dangerous when dealing with rib fractures. If it closed the break too quickly, the chest wall could be left deformed, which would inevitably lead to problems later on. Pain and recurrent infection would plague her so Fleur was giving her tiny portions. Slow and steady was, apparently, the way to go. Fleur had apologised for her lack of skill, regretting that she couldn't do it as quickly as a proper healer or mediwizard but Hermione was glad to be getting help at all. Fleur was also keeping her dosed with analgesic potions but in the last hour, they'd begun to wear off.<p>

Breathing was starting to hurt so she laid still and took shallow breaths. She tried to doze off but the memory of the Cruciatus curse echoed in her head, bouncing into her conscious mind with great frequency. She had known that it affected both the mind and body, wounding them simultaneously, but in her worst nightmares she'd never come close to imaging it. Her hand went to her throat, touching the raised wound there. She couldn't remember getting it and was grateful for that. She was also grateful she couldn't remember the chandelier. Ron had mentioned it earlier and her blood had frozen.

What if it had hit her head? Her wits were the only thing she had to keep herself, and the boys, alive. What was she without her mind? It had always set her apart from others. She'd been isolated in primary school because so many of the other children found her to be a know-it-all and a teacher's pet. Even some of the teachers had found her irritating, she knew, because she'd always known the answer and had even corrected them if she needed to. Her fourth class teacher, Mrs Kipling, had possessed a very specific eye-roll of utter exasperation that only Hermione had been able to elicit. By the end of the year, she'd stopped answering or speaking in class because it made her feel awful. The following year, her teacher Miss Teller had asked why she never put her hand up in class, though her homework was almost always perfect. Hermione hadn't answered but she saw compassion and understanding in her new teacher's eye.

_"Hermione," she said, "the biggest mistake people make is that they don't act when they can. They won't help an old lady struggling with her shopping on the street and they'll step over someone lying passed out just because they happen to be homeless. They won't answer a question when they can because they don't care or because they don't want to look like a clever clogs. Don't be one of them, dear. There's enough of them in the world."_

She'd put her hand up in class then and her classmates had sighed in irritation every time she did but Miss Teller had smiled at her gently.

Soon after that, she remembered visiting her grandmother. She hadn't known that the time, but she was dying from a horrible and slowly progressive form of bowel cancer. She'd suffered a series of strokes too, which had affected her memory. Her emaciation and pallor hadn't scared Hermione as much as the fact that her granny hadn't remembered her. The normal vibrant intelligence behind her eyes was gone. She stared blankly at her, no flicker of recognition in her rheumy eyes. She'd died during the summer before her first year in Hogwarts and Hermione had attended the funeral, tiny, sad and confused. Her aunt had tsked and remarked that if her granny had made more of an effort to keep her mind active, she'd never have lost her faculties. Hermione had then made herself a promise that she'd never be like that. She threw herself into her study and decided that she was going to be the best witch she could be. Maybe she'd even discover a magical cure for the things that had killed her granny.

Now an adult in the eyes of magical and muggle Britain, she knew her childish promises had been based on fallacies. Her grandmother _had_kept herself mentally active and even if she hadn't it wouldn't have made a difference. The disease plaguing her had thickened her blood and precipitated the formation of clots. These had travelled into her brain and damaged it. The cancer that grew in her had no magical cure, either. Muggle diseases generally didn't and there were those who had actually proposed a causal link between magical healing and the appearance of cancer in some muggles.

She closed her eyes, wondering why she was revisiting such old pains, especially when she had more immediate ones to worry about. She felt lonely and miserable but didn't want any company. Ron had sat with her earlier and clumsily held her hand. He hadn't said anything and couldn't meet her eyes. He was attentive but she wondered how much of that was guilt over his earlier actions. She didn't blame him for anything that had happened in Malfoy Manor, she was actually quite proud of him for his courage, but she still couldn't forget watching him storm out of the tent and pop out of the air despite the fact that she'd _begged_him not to.

Hermione knew him well enough to know why he'd gone. He resented the closeness between Harry and herself and had done since the Triwizard Tournament. She knew he'd been jealous of Victor too and had accused her of lacking loyalty then, something that still angered her to remember. She'd been so frustrated with his insecurities too, his constant feelings of inadequacy. He drew often from this well of self-pity and she was sick of it. It was one thing to feel sorry for himself at school, when a silly dance had been the most important thing they had to worry about but to let his childish fears consume him now and cause him to abandon them was unacceptable. The future of their world rested on Harry's shoulders and it was their job to help him.

She'd felt her feelings for him deepen as they grew, as they had for Harry, but where she felt that she and Harry understood one another she found herself constantly struggling with Ron. He didn't just accept that she cared for him, he suspected her friendship and love almost constantly and it made things incredibly awkward between them sometimes. The fact that he wanted more from her, physically speaking, but had been so reticent emotionally had left her wary of moving beyond strict friendship. His affection felt cloying and intrusive too, as if he did it because he felt it was expected. She tried to imagine kissing him or holding him intimately and found she couldn't. She'd tried, though.

She felt it was her own fault; that she was too harsh on him and unforgiving of his trespasses. She never let him get away with very much and often found herself badgering him about something. She squeezed her eyes shut and banished those thoughts. She needed to focus on Horcruxes, on Harry's quest. Not her own stupid problems and insecurities. It was difficult though, the curse had delved into the deepest parts of her and dragged to the fore every horrible feeling, every nasty part of her and every spiteful thought. She still felt naked; exposed entirely for harsh scrutiny.

A gull called mournfully on the wind and she stiffly brought her elbow under her and sat up, biting back a groan. She longed for something to do but there was nothing. She longed to read but her head ached. She was reduced to lying in bed and trying not to jostle her ribs. She felt useless and helpless, as if she were back lying on the cold floor beneath Bellatrix Lestrange. Her hissed, hateful words still sounded in her head and she felt tears welling in her eyes again. What chance had they against people like that? They _had_to try but in that moment, hearing the uncaring surf pound against the sand, she saw no chance of success.

She felt, in her heart, that they were walking a dark, dim road. The chances of her living to see peaceful times again were slim. She thought about her poor mother and father, uprooted and sent across the world. She'd die and they'd never even know they had a daughter. She longed for them, then. Her father had always understood how lonely she felt, even before she could articulate it properly. He'd been like her when he was a child; awkward and friendless. He'd been isolated until he moved school when he was fourteen and met a jovial, friendly and exuberant boy named Robert. They'd become friends and Graham Granger had never looked back. When she'd been little and felt like the only child in the world, he'd told her that story and she'd taken heart.

Lost in thought, she didn't hear the door open. A handsome, though scarred, face peeked in.

"'Lo Hermione," Bill said, smiling kindly. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, forcing a weak smile.

"Hmm," he hummed, stepping into the room. "You sure you're not sore? Fleur left me instructions to give you a potion for your pain around now, if she wasn't back from the shops," he smiled and his eyes twinkled. "You can't be tempted?"

Hermione sighed and ran her hand through her messy hair, suddenly embarrassed by the stuffy, dim room and the fact that she was sitting in one of Fleur's fine woollen jumpers, probably ruining it by sleeping in it.

"Um, well, if she thinks it would be best…" she mumbled, dipping her head. Bill set a steaming mug on the bedside locker and sat himself in a chair beside her, cocking his head to one side.

"Drink up, love," he said, nodding to it, "smells lovely."

"They taste nice," Hermione agreed, sipping it slowly. The warm liquid flowed into her and began to chase away the lingering chill she'd been feeling. "Thank you, Bill." He waved his hand and shook his head.

"No bother. Glad to be able to do _something_," he said wryly. "All this sitting around at home, waiting for something to happen… it's not good. I mean, I won't lie to you. The Order's in bad shape. No one knows what to do anymore. Well, we know we have to help Harry and you but," he blew out a great sigh, "it's hard. If it were up to me, I'd take you to the rest and call a meeting, get everyone together and damn well _insist_you tell us what's going on."

Hermione was indeed sympathetic, she knew what it was like to be kept in the dark about plans like this. She took another sip of tea and regarded Bill cautiously. She didn't speak, though, waiting for Bill.

"Well," he continued, grinning sheepishly, "if you wouldn't tell Lupin, you're not going to tell me, eh? Or the rest. Fleur reckons Harry said all that to Remus because you knew he'd dog you, pardon the expression, if he didn't. He'd follow and get caught up in it too. Get himself killed like Sirius did."

Hermione decided that it was as good an explanation as any, and much better than the real one. She nodded and sipped. "How is Tonks?"

Bill laughed. "Big as a house! You wouldn't believe it. And you wouldn't think she could get any _more_clumsy but she's managed it. But happy. Remus and her both."

The witch smiled. "I'm pleased to hear that. They deserve some happiness."

Bill watched her place her empty mug on the locker and nodded happily. His blue eyes were gentle and understanding. "We all do, pet. And we'll have it, you know. Don't lose hope for that."

He reached out and patted her arm, looking into her eyes. "You have something big to do but let us help. Fleur and me, we'll do what you need us to. We'll hunt Death Eaters. We'll go track down Fenrir bloody Greyback and skin him for you," he said, fiercely. "Or we'll feed you and give you somewhere safe and warm to sleep. Just ask us, all right? We're on the same side."

Hermione felt tears welling in her eyes and took her arm back, swiping at them. "Thank you," she whispered. She heard the chair creak and Bill put a warm hand on her shoulder.

"No point in calling yourself the good guys if you don't actually act like it, right?" he said. "You're all so young but you've been through utter shit. Remember that you're not alone."

She nodded and he rubbed her back affectionately before quietly leaving. The ache in her head was gone and her ribs weren't quite so sore. She lay back down and closed her eyes, willing sleep to come. Perhaps there was some hope, she mused, as long as people like Bill were still on their side.

* * *

><p>Fleur was furious and Apparated herself several feet above her back door step in her anger. She regained her balance and landed on her feet, though barely. She shook her head and silvery hair whipped around her, lightening and lengthening. When she opened her eyes, she knew they'd be back to normal.<p>

She stomped in the back door and encountered Bill, wide eyed and blinking. He saw her fury and froze.

"Uh, is everything all right, love?"

"_C'est vraiment des conneries!_" she bit, tugging her outdoor clothes off. She rattled through a string of French invectives, eventually trailing off into quiet grumbles. Bill brewed tea and set a mug before her.

"Did Hermione have her potion?" she asked after thanking him.

"About half an hour ago," he said, sighing. "She's upset, though I can't blame her. Can you tell me what's going on now? Why you're so annoyed?"

"No," she answered, but not unkindly. "I have work to do, mon loup. I must go."

"Have your cuppa first," he suggested, standing to get the biscuits. They sat in silence for a long while, Fleur grateful for his care but unwilling to break a confidence. She ate a ginger nut thoughtfully.

The old muggle in the chemist had been utterly awful to her. She'd been made to feel like nothing by him. As if she were entirely beneath contempt. He'd asked her if her husband knew what she was doing and what he'd think. He asked her a dozen invasive and horrible questions, none of which seemed very relevant to the issue at hand. Eventually, she'd been able to make her purchase and had left him behind his counter, shaking his white head at her.

"Have I told you I'm very glad I'm not a muggle?" she asked Bill, apparently out of the blue. He blinked and shook his head. "Well, I'm delighted, I feel you should know. I'm going up to Hermione."

"all right, my lady of mystery and cryptic phrases," he said, teasingly. He caught her glare and held up his hand. "Listen, you don't need to tell me, all right? I trust you. Just," he stared solemnly at her, "if it's too much, let me help."

Fleur was overcome with fondness and kissed his forehead. She was quite sure that he knew, or could guess, what was going on but was sensitive enough to leave it to her, to respect Hermione's privacy. "You're a fantastic husband, you know that?"

Bill smiled proudly. "I do try."

Fleur left him and walked upstairs. She knocked and waited a moment, hearing a sleepily mumbled invitation and entered. Hermione was rubbing her eyes and blinking. She was pale and her features were pinched, tightened with pain and exhaustion.

"Good afternoon," she greeted. "I hear you had your potion. Has it helped?"

Hermione nodded and Fleur sat on the bed beside her. She leaned the younger witch forwards and lifted her jumper. She pressed gently on Hermione's ribs at the back, over her cotton pyjamas, waiting for a response. The brunette hissed with pain once or twice but Fleur was satisfied that she was improving.

"You're on the mend. Can you take a deep breath without pain, yet?"

Hermione shook her head and regarded Fleur curiously. "How do you know so much about healing? I thought you worked in a bank?"

Fleur smiled. "Well, as you may know, Gringott's is a very dangerous place. Bill worked as a curse breaker and he is by no means the only one. Even the goblins who go down to the deep vaults can be injured if the old spells have become unstable. The bank noticed that I had a knack for healing and decided to train me up. I also learnt from my grandmother, she believes I would make a good healer."

Hermione smiled weakly. "I agree with her. You've really helped us, Fleur. Thank you."

Fleur did not often blush but felt her cheeks flare. She dipped her head in thanks before clearing her throat, wishing to chance the subject.

"How do you feel?" Fleur asked quietly. "Did you manage to rest for a while?"

"Not really, but I'm all right," Hermione replied, folding her arms around herself. She sat on her bed, picking at bobbles on the duvet. Fleur sat beside her and lifted the young woman's sleeve, running a critical eye over the hateful marks there. Of all the injuries, this one had refused to heal; defying ever attempt she'd made to erase it.

"It is fading but I believe it was hexed. There are things we may try to remove it."

"We've got more important things to worry about, you know," Hermione said in a tight voice, stiffly taking her arm back and sliding her sleeve down.

"Ah, yes, we do," Fleur agreed, in what seemed to strike Hermione as a strange tone of voice. She drew a paper bag out of her pocket and smoothed the edges. "Hermione, I treated your wounds. Some were serious because they posed a threat to your life and some were serious because of the implication behind them. Do you know what this is?"

Hermione took the nondescript bag and removed a small white box containing a blister packet. She stared at it, frowning with an utter lack of comprehension. Fleur knew how disconcerting it could be to have no idea about what was happening and suspected that Hermione was wholly unfamiliar with the feeling. "It's muggle medicine, but I don't know what it does."

"Have you heard of emergency contraception? The morning after pill?" Fleur asked, dipping her face to a level with the younger woman's.

The blood drained from Hermione's face before rushing back to it. Fleur shook her head, anxious to cut off any potential anger or insult. "Please, do not be annoyed. There were bruises on your legs and, and I was worried. Should I be?" she asked, her voice low and tremulous.

Hermione's face was ashen, her eyes wide and beginning to fill with tears. She didn't look at Fleur for a long time, staring at the box in her trembling hands. She was quiet for a long time before she spoke.

"It was Bellatrix," Hermione replied after a long, terrifying moment. "She knocked me to the ground and kicked me. She was on top of me for a long time. She bit me. She used the Cruciatus curse. She," her voice cracked, "she cut me but that was it. Nothing like that happened."

Fleur felt weak with relief and sagged against the wall behind the single bed. "Oh, thank goodness."

"I think Greyback had it in mind, though," her companion said slowly. "I think she said something about him having me but I must have passed out. I don't remember anything after it."

"Ron heard that too," Fleur said, quickly as to allay worry, "he meant to eat you, I imagine. Besides, Ron and Harry were there immediately after she said it. I'm sorry, please. I am sorry to have thought such horrible things."

Hermione raised her pale, blotchy face and shook her head. "No, no. Thank you. I'm glad you were thinking. I mean, that's what the world is now, isn't it? It's just horrible things. One after another. They think they can do what they want with people like me. They will if they're not stopped."

They were silent for a while, mulling that over. After a while, Hermione's shoulders began to shake and Fleur, unsure of her welcome but overwhelmed with pathos, embraced the other woman tightly. To her relief, Hermione clung to her gladly. To the dismay of both, she began sobbing into her shoulder, grief muffled in Fleur's thick jumper.

They stayed like that for a long while, so long that Hermione finished crying and felt instead hugely tired. She turned her face from the damp patch on Fleur's chest and let the other woman cradle her in warm arms and stroke her hair. They were silent then, no words could really describe the realities of this new, terrible world of theirs.

* * *

><p>The night was dark indeed by the time Fleur crawled in beside Bill. The rest of the household was deeply asleep and the night inky, moonless and starless. Hermione had fallen asleep on top her and she'd held her for many hours, until the other woman had rolled away and burrowed contentedly into her own pillow. Fleur had covered her with a warm blanket and left quietly, spying Luna in the other bed. She must have drifted off herself, then, to not have noticed the girl's entry.<p>

Bill grunted and turned onto his back, not quite awake. "Umph, how is she?"

"Asleep," Fleur replied quietly. "Quietly so."

"Greyback get her?"

"No, he didn't touch her."

"Good. Moon was full. Merlin knows if she wouldn't have gotten it."

"She likely would have," she sighed. "Goodnight, Bill."

"'Night pet," he muttered, turning his broad back to her. Warmth fell off him and Fleur marvelled at how different it felt compared to the sensation of Hermione in her arms. She held herself instead, feeling helpless to fix the cruel damage done but yearning to at least make an attempt.


	3. Slouching Through Another Night

**Part Two: Slouching Through Another Night**

"How are you today, Mr Ollivander?" Fleur asked brightly, opening the curtains to an unusually sunny April morning.

"I am well, Mrs Weasley," he replied cordially.

"Oh, please! Call me Fleur!" she admonished. "Mrs Weasley is short, red haired and my mother in law."

"I beg your pardon," he wheezed.

She paused and regarded him carefully. "They tired you out yesterday, did they not?"

The old man shook his head, sighing. "No, just reminded me of something I haven't thought about in many years. Wand lore, nonsense."

Fleur delicately allowed the subject to drop as she laid two clean towels over the back of an elegantly carved chair set before a vanity. "Do you remember weighing my wand, all those years ago?"

He laughed then, some spark returning to his eyes. "I do."

"You accused veela hair of being, what, temperamental?" she teased, flicking her own hair over her shoulder. "In the manner of their donors, I imagine?"

"My dear woman, you have been the picture of temperance since we all invaded your home," he smiled and closed his eyes. Even the short conversation had tired him. Fleur nodded and lifted the small washing basket before bidding him farewell.

* * *

><p>That evening, Fleur sighed and set her quill down, rubbing her tired eyes. Her little household had mostly spent the day resting and she'd taken the opportunity to catch up on some work. She was beginning to regret that she hadn't taken Dean up on the offer of a game of chess. Her work was painstaking at the best of times but her current pace seemed glacial. It was frustrating. She closed her notebook and gently shut the battered diary in front of her. She'd begun this work about a year a half ago and had made some progress but it wasn't enough, it was never enough.<p>

She heard sounds from without and rubbed her forehead. She needed to speak to Harry before he stumbled across this. The boy had enough on his mind without additional hurts to handle. She stood and walked to the kitchen, putting the kettle on. Footsteps sounded in the living room and she heard the murmur of low voices.

"The tea is on," she called. Dean stuck his head around the door and grinned sheepishly.

"Eh, we were going to take a walk. The lads and Luna."

"Ah," she said, smiling at his expression. "Good for you. It's no fun being cooped up in here all day."

"Better than being on the run!" he joked. "See you later."

Fleur nodded and bit her lip. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. "Actually, Dean, ask Harry if he wouldn't mind staying. I wish to speak to him."

Dean regarded her curiously but nodded. She heard mumbling in the next room for a few moments before Dean, Ron and Luna trudged into the kitchen and out the back door. Ron glared at her as he passed and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. Apparently, Bill and the twins had received all the Weasley charm. A moment later, Harry entered. His bright eyes were suspicious and his expression closed. She smiled at him and lifted the teapot onto the table.

"Tea, Harry?"

"Yes please," he said. "Dean said you wanted to talk to me."

Fleur nodded and sat down, motioning for him to do the same thing. "I do. Please, do not look like you are walking to your execution! I want to tell you about the work I am doing. Dumbledore left it for me."

Harry raised his eyebrows, wary curiosity on his face. "I didn't realise he'd done anything like that. What does he have you doing?" His voice was sad, remembering his teacher. Fleur truly felt for the boy; had no one he loved ever stayed with him?

"About a year and a half ago he came to me, when I was working in Gringott's. He knew that I am interested in certain branches of magic that few others in England today are. Having spent time with my family, I can also boast some small practical experience. He wished for me to review the research of one of the former members of the Order, to see if fresh eyes could bring any new facts to light."

Harry looked intrigued now, leaning forward on his elbows. "Who? Not Sirius?" he asked, mouth drawn into a firm line.

Fleur shook her head and shifted in her seat, facing him fully. "No. Lily Evans." His eyes were wide and he appeared shocked and somewhat upset. "You must know that your mother was a powerful witch, Harry. She was one of the few people who was able to perceive the _nature_ of magic. She had an intuitive grasp that few do and created some of the most beautiful magic people had ever seen." She sat back and shook her head. "The descriptions in her diaries are incredible. I've spoken to others too and they tell wonderful stories."

"Diaries?" he asked, quietly, hopefully.

"Yes, records of her work. Not her personal life, I'm afraid," she said, aware of how much Harry thirsted for knowledge of his mother and father. "Lily was given a task by Dumbledore too, you know. He saw her potential and asked her to look into the old ways."

"The old ways?" Harry echoed, wide eyed.

"Old magic, ancient stuff," she clarified. "Powerful too." She took a deep breath, for what she was about to reveal next had seemed impossible to her. Even Dumbledore had been sceptical at first when she'd brought it to his attention. It had been the last time she'd spoken to him and she remembered the tears in his sparkling eyes.

"I think she knew what she was doing, Harry. I think she knew that by sacrificing herself for you, you would be protected. More than that, I believe she thought it would destroy you-know-who. Her sacrifice was both incredible and entirely predictable. What parent would not lay down their life to protect their child?" she asked softly. "But she knew in advance what could be achieved. Her actions are all the more remarkable because she truly knew what she was doing. She understood all the implications."

They were silent for a moment, Harry's eyes glassy. He swiped at them and shook his head. "You make it sound like she walked into her own death," he said. "If she knew, if she was so powerful, why didn't she escape? Why didn't she just leave?" Tears built and rolled down his cheeks. "Why _did_ she leave?"

Fleur scooted closer to him and laid a hand on his arm. "It was a last resort, Harry," she said softly. "She did not want to, who would? But she did it because she loved you and wished to protect you. That it would harm you-know-who was an added bonus."

The young man before her nodded, wiping at his cheeks and sniffing. She gave him a moment to compose himself, pouring more tea. She sighed and sipped her own. She would not say it to Harry, but she truly believed that Lily could have been one of the greatest witches ever born, had her time not been cut short. She also believed that, as humble as Lily had been, she had been aware of her own potential.

"She did a great thing, Harry, out of her love for you," she assured him. "Be proud of her. Love her. She'd certainly be very proud of you."

Harry looked like a little boy then, all big eyes and long-held sadness. "I don't know about that. I have a job to do and I feel like I don't have a clue how to do it. I don't know if I _can_ do it."

"You can," she said. "We all believe in you. We'll help you if we can."

"I can't," he said, shaking his head, "the more people that know, you know…"

"I understand," she said, disappointed but unsurprised. "But take assistance where you can. Stay here and heal, Harry. If we can't help, then at least recover your strength. Trust us to keep you safe until you need to leave." Truth be told, she'd be happy if they never left, for all knew what they'd likely face. "Come back whenever you need to. You, Hermione and Ronald will have a safe house here as long as Bill and I draw breath."

"Thank you, Fleur," he said, smiling crookedly. "I'm sorry we landed in on you and Bill like this."

"Don't be," she said, smiling, "you have no idea how dull it was without you all. You're welcome here as long as you have need. You saved my sister's life," she reminded him. "Do you think I'd forget something like that?"

Harry flushed but said nothing for a long moment. "What was my mother looking at? What kind of magic?"

Fleur rubbed her face. "It is hard to explain. She was interested in the power of moments and in the magic of the natural world. She realised that spells are only words, that there is much more to our craft. She was interested in the harmony of the world."

Harry frowned. "Power of moments?"

Fleur nodded. "And events. Birth, death, sunset, a solstice or equinox… She was especially interesting in events that could only happen once. Actually," she said, sitting abruptly, "there is mention of you! She kept a record of your firsts!"

Harry blinked. "My what?"

"Your first tooth, your first time sitting, your first time on a broom, all those kinds of things. She used some of those moments as the basis for blessings. The appearance of your first tooth, for instance, was the basis of a spell to protect your teeth when you were older." She smiled at the baffled young man. "I bet you've never had any problems, have you?"

"No," he said, hand lifting to his mouth, "no, never even a toothache."

"You see! I did not pay much attention to that part of the journal, it was of no use to me, but if you would like it I will show you. I will show you any you wish to see." She smiled wryly. "I would beg you to let me finish my studies, but they are yours, by right. You can do with them whatever you please."

Harry stood up, longing plainly written on his face. "Could I see them, please? Now?"

Fleur stood too. "Of course you may. Follow me."

* * *

><p>One evening, several days after the arrival of her guests, Fleur found herself alone in the kitchen, flicking dishes into the cupboards. She hummed as she worked, soothed by the mindless task. The three boys had left to walk the beach once again and watch the sunset whilst Luna was sitting upstairs with Ollivander. Hermione quietly entered the kitchen, several mugs in hand and Fleur turned to greet her. She looked stronger, though still quite wan and pale. The dark circles beneath her eyes were still very prominent and Fleur wondered if she was sleeping.<p>

She thought back to the previous morning. The trio had gone to speak to Griphook and emerged soon afterwards, begging permission to stay for an indefinite period. Fleur had almost collapsed with relief when she'd heard the request and had almost lost her ability to speak proper English, so great was her haste in replying. She'd not been delighted to hear that Griphook was extending his visit, but he seemed to be integral to their mysterious plans.

These plans infuriated Fleur. She had no idea what the trio had been up to since the wedding and little clue as to what they planned to do next. She knew it involved Griphook, so she supposed it involved Gringott's. That alone was terrifying enough. She knew exactly what happened to people who crossed goblins; she had scraped them off walls more than once. She held back her anger, though, because there were more important matters at hand, particularly healing Hermione. The three of them could be talked out of their plan given time; she was sure of it.

"Sorry, these were in our room."

"Ah," Fleur chirped, "I was wondering where they'd wandered off to! Thank you." She took them from Hermione and set them in the sink, earning an almost baleful look from the pot scrubber as it slunk into the soapy water to do its duty. She turned to her guest and stepped close to her.

"May I see your arm, please?" she asked, gently. With great reluctance, Hermione lifted her sleeve. The word _mudblood_ glared at them both, red and angry despite Fleur's best efforts. She scowled and clucked her tongue. "Indeed, there is a hex upon this. A nasty curse."

Hermione nodded and took her arm back, shrugging. "There's not much we can do about it, though. Better to get used to it."

"Ma cherie!" Fleur exclaimed, frowning mightily, "you are not serious? We are most certainly not leaving you so marred!"

Hermione blinked at the vehemence of the other witch's words and cradled her arm to her chest. "But there's no way to get rid of it, Fleur," she said, gently. "It's all right. I don't care," she said, bravely.

Fleur rolled her eyes and turned Hermione around, gently pushing her towards the stairs. "_Mais_, you English! You Gryffindors! You are the most stubborn creatures I have ever encountered!"

By the end of Fleur's little rant, they were in her bedroom. She gave Hermione a shove towards the bed and she tumbled down rather heavily, eyes wide. The brunette cast her eyes around the room, a hint of curiosity shining in them.

"Do you know that I have not been idle during my time here in England?" the blonde asked conversationally as she bustled around the room. Hermione let out a little squawk of shock when the door locked itself but Fleur ignored her entirely. "I have been researching some ancient things, you know. I am well-suited to this because of my heritage, you see."

"Your veela heritage?"

"Exactement! I spent the summers of my youth with my grandmother and her tribe, learning ancient magic. It is the sort of magic that the enemy does not understand at all, in the slightest!" She spoke quickly, her accent becoming more pronounced as she went.

Hermione overcame her bafflement and craned her neck, watching Fleur gather her tools. "What sort of magic? I know that the veela have their own kind of power, in the manner of house elves and the like."

"Well," Fleur said, sitting beside her guest and frowning slightly, setting a bowl of water and a face cloth on a small table. "I don't know how to explain. The veela are warriors; guardians of the forest and also quite famous for their behaviour when dishonoured. They often don't use wands because they need their hands to hold a weapon. They don't write their history down because it is spread from mouth to ear. One truly becomes veela when one has learned all there is to know about our ways and has accepted her place in the great course of fate.

"There are no male veela?" Hermione asked, curious indeed.

"No, none."

Hermione frowned, then blushed. Fleur smirked and winked. "There are ways and means, Mademoiselle!"

"What? No! I, I wasn't-"

"It's what everyone asks about!" Fleur laughed. "Don't be shy. Besides, it is not very mysterious. The commonest way is in the local pub and the mean is lots of wine and a pretty smile!"

Hermione was still blushing hotly when Fleur laid a large towel over the bed between them, covering her lap as best she could. She caught a glimpse of stormy eyes and leaned forward, cradling Hermione's injured arm in her own, running her thumb over the raised wound. "Please, I am teasing. Ignore me, I must find my amusement where I can in these dark days."

Hermione couldn't argue with that thought and lifted her face, valiantly trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks. "It's all right, don't worry," she said, rolling her sleeve up securely. "What now?"

"Now, I ask if you trust me," Fleur asked, in a serious tone of voice. "I am Fleur Isabelle Delacour and I wish to help you," she intoned solemnly. "I shall do whatever is in my power to remedy the harm done to you. Do you trust that I seek to aid you?"

"I do," Hermione said, listening very carefully.

"Do you trust that I bear you no ill-will and hold no malice against you?"

"I do."

"Do you trust that I will bring you no further harm and hope to remove your hurts?"

"I do," Hermione breathed, hair bristling in its pony tail. Fleur smiled at the sight. She could feel currents around her, strange and grim magic unlike what one usually encountered. But as stern and dour as this power was, it was without evil and she felt as though she was before an old and wise teacher, ready to impart knowledge. Almost like Dumbledore, she thought.

"I do," she repeated softly.

Fleur nodded, seeing the truth in dark brown eyes. The room began to glow golden and red as the setting sun burned the low clouds and the restless sea. She laid Hermione's arm on her lap and lifted a pin from the front of her blouse, jabbing her own finger and squeezing a single drop of blood into the bowl. Hermione gasped, watching the dark droplet sink through the water and disperse. Fleur held her hand over the bowl, murmuring softly and rapidly for several minutes before a golden flash filled the little vessel. Steam rose from the surface as the light faded and the water danced around the edges of the bowl.

"My blood, freely given, has burned this water," she intoned, dipping the face cloth in and wringing it out. "It has left this water free of impurity, completely." Frightened eyes met her own but Hermione nodded for her to proceed.

She felt the tremor in the thin arm as she gently wiped the warm cloth over the wound. The hateful word glared up at her, as if sensing that its time was now limited. Hermione gasped in pain as it sent little tendrils out into her flesh, seeking to defend its home. Fleur scoffed at it and put her hand over it entirely.

"First the cut, then the curse," she muttered, "so, little curse, if you have no cut, where do you live?"

Hermione hissed in discomfort as the horrible thing on her arm tried one last time to dig into her flesh. She cried out in pain, the white hot sting palpable to Fleur as well, and her arm jerked in Fleur's grip. Gritting her teeth, she brought her free hand over to hold it down. Tears gathered behind her dark eyes and she almost cried out again. Then, suddenly, wondrously, the pain was gone. Fleur saw Hermione blink her tears back and watched as a cloud of dark, vile smoke curl between them, over her arm. The small cloud hissed and exuded evil vapours, wondering where its next home should be.

"Begone," Fleur said firmly, and smartly blew on it as if it were a birthday candle. The loathsome thing vanished, with a small squeal of anguish and Fleur listened as Hermione drew in a deep breath of relief.

"It is done," Fleur said, catching Hermione's eye as the room darkened around them. Twilight, soothing and calm, settled in for its brief time. The young witch's eyes were glassy with tears and the sight brought pity to Fleur's heart. "I am sorry it was painful, I did not expect it to be."

"No! No, it's fine." She tugged her arm up, looking with wonder at the unmarked skin. "That was incredible!" she exclaimed, voice filled with wonder. Without asking, she flicked her wand in the direction of the lamps, filling the room with warm light. "Amazing."

Fleur nodded, closing her eyes and drawing a breath through closed teeth. She hadn't moved her arm after Hermione had lifted hers and now both noticed droplets of red falling to stain the white towel beneath them.

Hermione gasped and grabbed Fleur's wrist gently, turning her arm over to reveal the very wound she'd recently lost. "Fleur! What, what have you done!"

"Nothing that cannot be healed," she said, firmly. "It is just a cut, it will heal without a scar."

"I, I didn't… Bloody hell, Fleur!" Hermione shouted, picking up the face cloth and holding it over the steadily bleeding wound. "What on earth were you thinking! This, this kind of thing! Blood magic, isn't it? Dark magic!"

"Blood, yes," Fleur said, amused by Hermione's anger because it was so _familiar_! This was the young woman she'd last seen dancing at her wedding; the little brat who'd mocked her accent with Ginny. "But not dark, never dark." She lifted her uninjured arm to hold Hermione's chin because this was so _important_.

"Listen to me, please. You must understand that when intent is pure, honest and good, dark magic is not possible. Of course, you must fully comprehend what you are doing; the forces that you manipulate. And I do. I have been studying these since before I began attending Beauxbatons. Blood has power, yes, of course it does! I used it to purify the water. If you were to look now, you would not find even one fragment of me in that bowl, or anything else for that matter. I used blood to take that horrible mark from you and there was a price to pay. But without the cut, there was no place for the hex and poof!"

"It was gone," Hermione said, with awe. Dipping her head, she lifted the towel and scowled at the mark, still oozing sluggishly. She pressed it back and bit her lip. Fleur allowed the other witch a moment to compose herself before she spoke again.

"Cherie, that was an evil thing to have on you, in you. It needed to be destroyed one way or another. There were other ways, of course, but this, for me, was the natural way. The best way."

Hermione was quiet for a long while, pressing the cloth to Fleur's arm. When she raised her eyes, almost defiantly, Fleur's heart thrilled at the sight.

"Teach me to heal you, then. I'm rubbish at healing spells and I think that's probably going to get me into trouble some day."

Fleur laughed, a tinkling, joyous sound and shook her long hair.

"Of course I will!"

* * *

><p>She set Ollivander's dinner on the tray floating over his lap and straightened up. "Bon appetite."<p>

"Many thanks, Fleur." He lifted his knife and regarded his food with polite interest. His appetite was often hard to find and his stomach easy to turn. He still felt weak and did not think he could yet manage the stairs. His hostess showed no sign of leaving just yet and he suspected she was concerned about his poor diet.

"Tell me," he asked, perhaps to take attention away from himself eating, "who made your wand?"

"Oh," she exclaimed, blinking, "one of my grandmother's sisters. She gave her hair and I was sent to find a branch."

"Remarkable," he murmured. "The wand was made _for_ you?"

"Indeed. It is the way of my people."

"Yet," he sliced a boiled potato in half and dipped it in gravy. "Yet you were raised in our world."

Fleur lifted a fine eyebrow and sat in the chair at the vanity. "I was. My mother left the tribe during the first rise of you-know-who on the continent. She met my father and fell very deeply in love. She chose to live in his world, because he would not be allowed in hers."

"Fascinating," he said, lifting a forkful of carrots. "You have made the same choice."

Fleur turned to look out the window and thought for a long moment. "I suppose that's correct. Both of us left what homes we knew for the same reason. But I often spent time with my grandmother. We were not ostracised."

"Evidently not," he mused. There was a moment of silence and Fleur regarded him closely, rolling some thought over in her head. Self conscious under her gaze, he took a slice of beef and gravy.

"You do not use veela hair. Why?"

He stopped chewing and lifted his eyes to hers. "Why, I believe you know that. One cannot simply _steal_ the hair of a veela and they very rarely deign to act as donors. I simply never learned. None of us did; myself, Gregorovitch, Littmann, Fitzhugh, DeAngelo… None of us."

She was quiet again, lowering her eyes. "Could you? If you had the hair, could you?"

Had he been drinking at that moment, he likely would have choked. The idea simultaneously thrilled and exhausted him. "Fleur?"

"Miss Granger's wand is gone; she is left with the wand of Bellatrix Lestrange, which is likely as cruel and capricious as its owner."

"That wand was won from Madame Lestrange," he chided, taking a bite of potato again. "Allegiances change. Though Mr Potter lost a fine wand, he now commands another, as does Mr Weasley."

"Never the less, it is not her own and she emphatically did not win that wand from that woman. In fact, there is no less suitable wand for her, I imagine."

A certain canny gleam sparkled in his ancient eyes. "You wish me to make her another?"

"I know your materials are out of reach but tell me what you need and you will have it," she said, firmly.

He rested his cutlery on his plate, surprised to note it was empty. He hadn't even realised he'd been eating most of the time. There was, evidently, much to be said for dining in company. Fleur summoned the tray with a wave of her hand and set it on the night stand.

"Do you not think she'd be better defeating this demon herself?" he asked, some old part of him intensely interested. "She suffered awfully. I heard it, you know. But she did not accept defeat. Her actions saved us all from certain death at the hands of the Dark Lord."

Fleur stood and paced the room. "I thought about that. But what if she should find herself facing Lestrange? That woman will hunt her, I'm sure. She marked her and she will do all in her considerable power to reclaim her. She will not be able to rely on that wand, in such circumstances."

"That is very true," he admitted. "Allow me time to think on this matter, please."

"I shall," she said, graciously. "I will also bring you pudding, your appetite seems to have returned."

* * *

><p>One rainy night, Hermione and Harry were sitting beside the fireplace in the tiny parlour, each lost in the books on their knees. Hermione had argued that it was a much better place to study than the smallest bedroom, because it at least had a proper table, but Griphook found it too open and exposed. Too easy for someone to listen in, he thought. Hermione wondered if it was too bright for the goblin, for its windows faced west and south.<p>

Hermione was curled under a soft blanket, reading The Tales of Beadle the Bard. The little book contained dozens and dozens of stories, each written in the obscure and complicated notation of runes. It took time to work through each of them, to puzzle out the real meaning intended. She was content, though, to lose herself in the tales; to escape from the grim reality around them. Bill would often vanish during the night for hours at a time, returning with bad news from their fragmenting world. None of their friends had fallen, yet, but the feeling was that it was merely a matter of time.

Harry was drinking in his mother's work, eyes shining as he went through it. He'd told her that he didn't understand most of it, that it wasn't a record of the spells she learned or invented. It was a book about the very nature of magic as understood by Lily Evans (and later Potter, after she'd married James). He didn't understand it but he drew great comfort from it. Hermione could have kissed Fleur when she heard that the blonde had shared this with him, despite the fact that Dumbledore had told her not to, long ago. With all the secret missions they seemed to be charged with, their hostess had apparently thought this one was not necessary anymore.

Hermione had read several pages of the book and could find no reason for Dumbledore wanting to hide it from Harry other than the fact that it was a constant reminder of his mother. It worried Hermione slightly, though. If Dumbledore had wanted it kept secret from Harry, he must have had a reason. Perhaps he'd known that for Harry, the death of his parents was a wound that had never healed. Each new bit of knowledge about them seemed to open it again. Maybe Dumbledore felt it was time to put that tragedy aside for the moment to worry about the future.

She turned the page in her book and felt a cough build in her chest. She spluttered and hacked for a few minutes, feeling awful pain lance through her. Her eyes watered and she felt Beadle fall from her fingers as she leaned forward. The fit passed and she became aware of Harry kneeling beside her armchair, rubbing her back.

"Are you all right?" he asked, gently. She nodded and he smiled crookedly.

"You're sure?" he asked, wiping a tear from her face. "Should I get Fleur?"

"I'm fine, Harry," she said, sighing. "I'm still not fixed, I suppose."

"Strange that ribs take longer to heal than arm bones, isn't it?" he mused, bright green eyes sad behind his glasses. "I think Dobby would have felt bad, knowing that something he did hurt you."

Hermione smiled sadly, remembering the little man. "He was so very brave."

"I just wish we knew who sent him," Harry said, but seemed to regret mentioning it. The pair of them had been over this many times in the week since their arrival and Hermione didn't have the strength to get into it again. She just shrugged and nodded. Harry seemed relieved and stood up. He picked up Hermione's book and held it.

"I like it here," he said, quietly. "I mean, it's good to have a plan, for once. And, well, it feels like a real home."

Hermione nodded, leaning back against the back of her chair. Sorrow filled her, for the young man before her who'd never known a real home, other than Hogwarts. "Grimmauld Place was starting to feel like a real home, too."

Harry sighed, flicking open Hermione's book. "Any new stories ready?" he asked, obviously not wanting to remember the loss of their safe house. By the time they'd left, the place was starting to feel warm and homey, like a proper home indeed.

She smiled. After Ron had left them, they'd often spent long dark evenings with Hermione telling him some of the stories in the book. The Tale of the Three Brothers had been the next on her list, funnily enough. It had taken her a long time to translate it into words that could be spoken aloud, though.

"I don't Harry," she said, "sorry."

"No problem," he said, smiling crookedly. "I'm too old for fairy tales, anyway."

"Now," a voice sounded from the door, "no one is ever too old for fairy tales," Fleur commented, coming into the room backwards, kicking the door open. She held a tray with a teapot and mugs, milk, sugar, biscuits and fresh scones. She set the tray on the coffee table, smiling at her guests. She seemed utterly determined to reverse whatever weight loss they'd suffered during their wandering.

She pulled up a three legged stool and set to fixing their tea. "I for one am always happy to hear a new fairy tale. Or to tell an old one."

"Tell us one, please," Harry asked, obviously hungry for distraction. Fleur looked at Hermione who nodded. The pretty witch frowned in concentration, biting her lip. Hermione thought it made her look younger than her years and was quite adorable.

"Well, what if I tell you the tale of the people of the woodland?"

"Do," Hermione said, taking her tea and a fresh scone. "Please."

"Very well," Fleur said, closing her eyes for a moment. Her voice was hypnotic and soft in the night, wrapping around them and warming some young part of them. It brought comfort and contentedness, painting vivid pictures for their minds.

"Many years ago and far from here, a babe was born to a charcoal burner and his wife, who happened to be magical folk. Her mother died bringing her into the world and her grief stricken father was left to raise her alone. He taught his daughter about the forest, about her place in it. She learned how to make charcoal and how to snare a rabbit. She learned how to hunt for birds and deer with a slender bow that had belonged to her mother. She traded fox skins for a steel blade with a passing gypsy. She learned how to tan leather from one of the old women in the hamlet they brought their charcoal to. She learned spells from her father but felt no desire to leave the forest to study magic.

"She grew tall and strong, fierce and stern. She spent as much time as she could in the woods with her father, living a simple and contented life."

Here Fleur paused, taking a sip of her tea. "But all good things end. One day, soldiers came to the hamlet and killed every man, woman and child there. They robbed their food and burned their houses down. They slaughtered their livestock and left their bodies to freeze in the winter snow and be eaten by wolves. The charcoal burner had been there, having a meal of bread, stew and vodka in the tavern after selling all his wares. His daughter found him dead in front of the door to a store room, cudgel in hand, trying to defend some of the old folk who'd hidden there. They were dead too.

"She was consumed with guilt. She'd been away hunting in the woods and had survived, the only one out of all the villagers. She chased away the wolves and tried to dig a grave for her father. The ground was frozen, though, so she built a pyre and burned her father, their friends and some cousins of his. She laid babies and crooked crones there, alongside the strong young farmers and beautiful milk maids."

Her face was still and she looked up at her guests. They were captivated.

"She gathered her belongings and set out, following the trail of the men who'd done such terrible things. She found death in their wake and wondered what beasts could do such things, what evil folk. She found their camp in the woods and saw that they were hundreds in number and building a base of some sort. They had prisoners with them and were forcing them to dig a huge pit, which she realised would be their grave. She was filled with rage and from her place, she swore to thaw the frozen ground with their hot blood.

"She went to find somewhere to stay for the night and was surprised when the woods changed. They were truly ancient here, still full of bears, elk, bison and wolves. Being one of the woodland folk, she recognised the faint smell of smoke and followed it to a little, squat house beside a spring. She was surprised, for she couldn't understand how the little hovel had escaped the attention of the soldiers.

"She knocked on the door and an ancient woman with white hair and white eyes answered her.

"'Who are you,' she asked, 'who comes to my door at this time of night?'"

"'Grandmother, I am a charcoal burner's daughter from a valley five days from here. A village close to us was destroyed and my father murdered by the soldiers who make their camp only an hour from this house. They are evil men and will murder you if they find you. Leave this place, if you can.'"

"The old woman listened, tilting her head and nodding. 'Daughter, I will not leave. I have gifts that can hide this house from their kind. You have been blessed by ancient spirits and so were allowed to see it. I am Babayaga. Come in and eat.'"

"So the charcoal burner's daughter sat and ate what the crone had to share. She promised to fill her larder at first light and slept on a pallet of clean straw beside the fire. The desire for vengeance burned in her heart but she was a woman of honour and would fulfil her promise first. Before dawn, she strung her bow and made her way into the old woods. After two hours, just as the weak winter sun was starting to melt the frost, she came upon a hind drinking from a stream.

"The doe was red and fat, with no fawn in her belly or by her side. The charcoal burner's daughter, knowing the old ways, said a quick prayer and nocked her arrow, drawing it back to her ear. Just as she was about to loose it, a woman dressed in a tunic the colour of fresh snow fell from a tree above her and sank her knife into the deer's skull, dropping it immediately. So startled was the charcoal burner's daughter that she released her arrow. It whizzed past the woman and sank into a tree, having passed within inches of her.

"The huntress turned to her and without a word, leapt for her. She laid her knife to the throat of the charcoal burner's daughter and spoke in a strange tongue. The charcoal burner's daughter apologised, throwing her arms up and surrendering her neck. She had no desire to die but she was a woman of honour, as I've said, and she'd almost killed the huntress, after all. Despite not sharing a word between them, the huntress saw the fear and regret in her eyes. In an moment of mercy, which was uncommon for her kind, she lowered her knife.

"She turned on her heel and went to the deer, turning her onto her back. The charcoal burner's daughter followed carefully and offered her help. Together, they gutted, skinned and dressed the hind. Though they spoke not a word, they smiled at one another and a bond of friendship formed between them. Covered in blood, they finished their task. The huntress gave the charcoal burner's daughter a shin of meat so that she'd have something for the evening meal.

"They parted at midday and the charcoal burner's daughter returned to the crone. She told her story and the old woman was thoughtful.

"'I did not think their kind still lingered here," she mused. 'It is a good omen. If you see them again, do not shoot them. Not all are as forgiving as your huntress.'"

"The next morning, the charcoal burner's daughter left the little house and found another hind, which she took home for the old woman. Every morning, she left the house and wandered until dark, bringing back fowl and rabbits, deer and even boars. She grew stronger still and having learned some spells from the crone, more skilled in the use of magic. She never saw the huntress though, and the memory of her haunted her dreams."

"A month after she arrived, a tiny old man arrived to the crone's door. He was her brother, called Myslibor, and had been a great warrior in his day. Now, though, he was crippled and bent in half. Despite this, his eyes were good and he saw the strength and fury in the charcoal burner's daughter.

"'You hate these men, these soldiers,' he said one evening, 'well, so do I. They murdered my sons and grandchildren. They raped my daughters and dashed the skulls of my great grandchildren against the stones of the hearth. They left me alive to tell all I met of their might. I came here to die, I tell you, but before I do that I will teach you how to slaughter them as skilfully as you slaughter your quarry.'"

"The crone was not happy. 'Do not seek vengeance, child. Leave them to their murder but do not join them. Do not become them. Stay here and be at peace.'"

"The charcoal burner's daughter was confused, for though the thirst for vengeance burned in her heart, she was no murderer. She left them and walked out into the forest, wandering the moon lit paths. She walked for many hours, the wolves watching her pass in utter silence. She walked over frozen streams and her breath curled in the air. She arrived at a little pond and sat beside it, deep in thought.

"Her peace was broken by the sound of screams. She grabbed her bow and ran towards the sound. What greeted her was a scene of horror. Three soldiers had taken thin, dying men into the woods and murdered them, kicking them into shallow graves. She felt hatred build in her chest and without a thought, lifted her bow. They fell quickly, before they even realised what had happened. She approached them was amazed to see a bloody, bound and unconscious woman on the ground. It was the huntress and she was sporting a lump on her head.

"She lifted her and fled into the woods, moving quickly and without leaving a path. She stopped only when she felt the woman in her arms stir. She laid her down in the shadow of an oak tree and built a little fire. She melted snow and tended her wounds, watching as the other woman came back to her senses.

"They could not speak to one another still, but they found it did not matter. The huntress understood that she had been rescued after blundering into a trap and was grateful. They curled together for warmth beside the little fire, beneath the charcoal burner's coat and slept till dawn. In the morning, the huntress kissed her saviour and melted into the trees. The charcoal burner's daughter was amazed, for she had never been kissed so sweetly before. She returned to the cabin and told her tale, or most of it anyway."

"The crone's eyes shone wisely. 'It is clear, now, that these evil men seek the daughters of the forest. They seek to control their power and learn their secrets. This is impossible, for no man may know their secrets, but they will try none the less.'"

"Myslibor was wary. 'They are spirits, evil and corrupting. They enslave men and bewitch them, they will not be harmed by those soldiers. I say forget them; you have your vengeance to worry about.'"

"The charcoal burner's daughter was quiet for a time, but then spoke. 'I know nothing about the daughters of the forest. The huntress is mighty and a great warrior; I am an unskilled child beside her. Last night, it seemed to me the soldiers drew her out with the men, their prisoners. They were skeletons walking; death was with them at every step. They are the ones who need help. I will not seek vengeance. I will seek to defeat the soldiers and release their prisoners. I will haunt them from the woods.'"

"She kept her word. She used all her skill to hunt the men around the camp. Babayaga taught her spells to hide and protect herself and Myslibor taught her spells to wound and confuse. Each night, she killed the patrols bringing prisoners out for death. She brought the prisoners to Babayaga's cabin, where they ate the meat she'd hunted and returned to strength. The soldiers stopped bringing the men out of the camp and could not kill them, for though the prisoners were weak, they were vastly outnumbered. Soon, the captains sent out patrols to hunt the ghost killing their troops. They never succeeded, though, and she hunted them with the skill she used to pluck little birds from the air.

"But no matter how many fell, more arrived. It was a stalemate. As winter melted to spring, they stopped sending patrols out at all. They mounted lights on towers around the perimeter of the camp and left no shadows for their ghost. The charcoal burner's daughter was patient, though, and waited for her chance. The rescued prisoners left the forest to bring help, to break into the camp and save their friends.

"A chance came in the spring proper, when forty men left the camp. They were careful, posting guards and the like, but she was skilled and after a three days of travel, ten were dead. She felt sure she'd kill them all when one night, having had enough, one of the captains walked alone into the woods. She trailed him, ready to kill him when she was gripped in a tight fist. She realised that he was a wizard and he had caught her by surprise.

"'He spoke to her in her language, though he spoke it poorly. He demanded that she bring him to the queen, that he show her the village of the people. She denied all knowledge, for she was not one of the people, but he did not believe her. He tortured her magically in the clearing before he chained her in enchanted chains and dragged her back to camp. He threw her in the middle of the camp and told his men that they'd kill her at dawn."

Fleur paused, taking a sip of her now cold tea. Hermione and Harry were leaning forward, enraptured.

"But dawn never came for the men, for a dozen warriors dropped from the trees and slaughtered them to the last. They were led by the huntress, who unbound the chains cutting into the charcoal burner's daughter. She touched her face and suddenly, the woman could understand the language of the strange warriors.

"'You were foolish to attack them all, but brave too. We have watched you from a distance and you have brought many to death. You have gone down a bloody road for your vengeance.'"

"'Nay, lady,' she replied, savouring her chance to speak with her, 'not for vengeance. I would see the prisoners saved before vengeance.'"

"Another warrior spoke then. 'Prove it. Vengeance is a selfish act, at the end of things. A thing to be done alone. You cannot rescue them alone. Join us and help us, if you truly wish to save them. We will train you and when we attack, you will fight alongside us.'"

"The charcoal burner's daughter nodded once and took the hand of the huntress. They walked into the depths of the forest and they did as they said they would."

Fleur stopped then. Harry almost fell off his chair. "Well? What happened? Did they fight? Did they defeat the soldiers?"

Fleur shook her head sadly. "No. A fortnight before they planned to attack, there was a breakout of cholera in the camp. The prisoners died before they could be saved. The soldiers abandoned the place, saying it was cursed. Two dozen stayed, for they'd been charged with finding out who the ghosts were, and learning their secrets, but they fell in minutes. The charcoal burner's daughter never did get her vengeance."

They were quiet then, though Hermione frowned after a while. "That's a very unusual fairy tale. It's true, isn't it?" Fleur nodded. "And it's about the veela?" she asked again. Fleur smiled and nodded.

"I would have preferred a happy ending, to be honest," Harry said sadly.

"Well," Fleur said, tipping her head to one side, "we do not always get happy endings, Harry. All we can do it prepare ourselves to do the right thing. Who was to know? Had the outbreak not happened, they would have saved thousands of lives. Had they pursued vengeance, they would have barged in and they could have been captured. Had that happened, there's a chance that the world would be a very, very different place today," she said, darkly

"But I bet they regret it," Harry said, sounding young and lonely. "Not saving those people."

"They do. How could they not? Life is not always fair, Harry. But they did what they thought was right. They faced evil and it does not always play by the rules."

Harry nodded, having something to think about. He thanked Fleur for the story and excused himself, heading for the living room where his sleeping bag awaited. The pair of witches watched him leave, each quiet for a long moment.

"I would have liked a happy ending, too," Hermione remarked, but she appreciated that Fleur knew better than try to feed Harry an untrue happy ending right now. He wasn't in a state of mind where he could accept them, Hermione suspected. But she wished he could set his burden aside, even for a while and let his mind wander.

"Well, what if I said the huntress and the charcoal burner's daughter lived happily ever after?" Fleur asked, gathering the dishes. "That after the horrors of war, they abandoned vengeance and lived a peaceful life in a village in the woods? Because that's true as well."

Hermione blushed. "Together?"

Fleur smiled, looking at her for a long moment. "Together. They married the following spring. Though their life was peaceful, it was not uneventful. They argued for the International Statute of Secrecy to be revoked, you know. Though it almost meant exile from the tribe."

"Really? Why?" Hermione asked, intrigued. She yawned though, tired despite herself. Fleur smiled at her and reached for, pulling her to stand.

"That is another long story, one for another night. You must rest, my dear."

Hermione swayed on her feet, exhaustion suddenly catching up to her. "all right. I'll hold you to that. Good night."

Fleur wished her sweet dreams and stood at the bottom of the stairs as she ascended, humming quietly to herself.


	4. Little Winning Streak

Dear Reader,

Well, here's another chapter. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, you're all very kind to take the time and it's very much apppreciated. Some discussion of themes which may be upsetting to some people so please proceed with caution.

**Part Three: Little Winning Streak  
><strong>

Every two days or so, Fleur all but ordered the four Plotters out of the smallest bedroom and into the fresh air. Dean and Luna usually accompanied them in wandering around the shore and cliff. Bill and Fleur had long ago made safe their hill and several fields behind it, as well as the shore itself, were rigged to alert any the guardians of the house to intruders. It was safe for them to walk the shore or to sit on the sand and watch the tide roll in and out. The pair continued to perfect their defences, determined to provide a safe haven for their assorted guests.

One evening, Fleur was walking the perimeter of her wards, humming to them to encourage their efforts. She had begun on the northern edge of the beach and followed the almost imperceptible barrier inland. It was with great surprise that she came upon Hermione, sitting cross legged in the marram grass and staring into space with great concentration.

"Can you see it?" Fleur asked without preamble. Curious, she took a seat beside the other witch, easily able to perceive her own enchantment. She was surprised that Hermione was aware of it at all though given her talents, as well as her knowledge of its presence, perhaps she shouldn't have been.

"I can, almost," Hermione said. "Out of the corner of my eye. But I think that's because I know it's there. It feels familiar, too," she said, quietly.

Fleur sat quietly for a long moment, listening to insects move through the grass. The weather was getting warmer at last and the blonde closed her eyes, inhaling the lovely scent of spring air. Familiar, eh? She knew that Hermione had been introduced to her magic when she healed her but it was unusual to gain such insight so quickly. Even Bill sometimes missed her spells, even when she'd told him about them. Hermione intrigued her, she had to admit.

"Why did you go into the muggle town to get that medicine?" Hermione asked after a long, though not uncomfortable, silence.

Fleur lay herself back on her elbows and stretched her legs out before her, tipping her head back to study her companion. She wondered how much that stuffy old British school had bothered to teach them about the very basic facts of life.

Not much, if Bill were to be believed.

"Well, it is simple. Muggles have perfected contraception in the last few decades. I believe you should take your advantages where you can. Our methods are, at best, tricky and at worst downright dangerous. Their solution merely hastens a normal event."

"Odd," Hermione mused, still staring out over the dunes. "I mean, why haven't we?"

"Because this world is obsessed with blood lines!" Fleur groaned, flopping back down onto the grass. "Did you know, at least four different people came to congratulate me at my wedding? They presumed that Bill and I were marrying because I was pregnant!"

Hermione chuckled at that, and at Fleur's exasperation. "Well, you did get married quite quickly."

Fleur waved a dismissive hand. "A long engagement provides ample opportunity for second thoughts. Besides, I am twenty years old! I am far too young to be having babies."

Hermione nodded, though in truth these weren't things she often thought about. "Do you want children?"

Fleur was quiet then and rolled onto her side to regard Hermione carefully. Children were not a luxury she'd allow herself any time soon. Perhaps never. The world was too cruel a place. "I do, but not now. When the time is right."

Hermione took that in and was silent for a long moment, fiddling with her fingers. She'd been raised Catholic, British, a muggle and then a witch in a boarding school. There were certain things she'd never really spoken of with anyone but the urge gripped her now.

"This is going to sound so, so stupid but… I was, I mean, I... Bloody hell!" she buried her face in her hands. Fleur sat up and scooted closer to her, concerned but not wanting to overwhelm.

"Come now," she said, smoothing messy hair tenderly. "What's bothering you?"

"It's irrational!" she said crossly, clearly annoyed with herself. "I mean, I know, I was absolutely sure! But… But I got my period this morning and I was so _fucking_ relieved!" She jammed the heels of her fists in her eyes, cheeks hot with embarrassment. "I've been all over the place since this all began and I, I just…"

"Ma cherie," Fleur breathed, wrapping the other witch in a fierce embrace, "I'm so sorry!"

"What for?" Hermione demanded, slumping against Fleur and feeling tears roll over her cheeks.

"For putting the monstrous idea in your head in the first place!" Fleur was very, very annoyed at herself. So terribly angry. "I was scared," she said, quietly. "The bites, your legs… A girl in my class, when we were fifteen... It looked the same. She refused to tell anyone but one of the older girls got wind and helped her. I remember so vividly how she looked."

Hermione was quiet then, taking that in. There had been nothing but care behind Fleur's actions, she knew that. "It's all right. Please, don't blame yourself. I'm just glad it's _you_, you know?"

Fleur nodded wearily and sighed, still petting Hermione's hair. She closed her eyes and let her grief roll away, for now. She hated the idea that she'd hurt this poor creature more than she'd already been hurt. She pulled away and shuffled around, sliding behind the smaller witch and cradling her from behind, her arms and legs wrapped around her. She spread her palms on Hermione's belly, over her sensible coat. She stiffened under her touch, hands flying to Fleur's and spine straightening.

"Fleur? What are you doing?"

"You are sitting out here, in the cold, and if I were in the same patch of hormones as yourself, I'd be miserable with pain. Relax, I wish to sing to you."

She closed her eyes and opened her mouth to sing, a song she'd heard many years ago. It told a terribly typical story of green hills and loss and she'd forgotten many of the words but she didn't think Hermione's French would allow her to nitpick. She felt the other woman relax into her, breathing deeply the fragrant air of early spring and nestling into Fleur's chest. She finished her song and began another, this time in English and felt Hermione clasp her arm gently.

Veela were gifted with voices that would make nightingales abandon song. While Fleur was in no way privy to all the workings of her people, or even fully aware of her own potential, song was integral to their culture and identity. She had to be very mindful, though. In her youth she had often, accidentally, enchanted people by singing along to the radio. Even humming around the kitchen could fluster those susceptible. It was one of the things she loved about Bill; he possessed the musical ability of a potato and was almost tone deaf. He'd find her singing and, if he knew the words, would croon along so woefully poorly that it usually left Fleur in gales of laughter.

She was better now at keeping control of her talents. She concentrated on calling to the fore affection, tenderness and comfort. Some wounds were tricky indeed to heal but with every day that passed, the urge to press forward with Hermione was undiminished. She longed to rout the cruel taint that Bellatrix had left. She sang still, wordless songs she'd heard in the trees or on the shore. Hermione pressed the side of her face into her chest and sighed hugely, before slumping in a boneless heap against Fleur.

In an effort to avoid pitching backwards, the blonde witch called up a little sand dune behind her and leaned against it, cradling her guest. Her guest? Her friend, at this stage.

The sun was almost touching the horizon when Fleur stopped singing. She was surprised to note that the barrier before her appeared stronger than ever. It had, apparently, appreciated her song. She was so preoccupied with the barrier that Hermione had to touch her shoulder to gain her attention.

"I can see it much more clearly, now," Hermione reported, even though she wasn't looking at the barrier at all. Fleur took her word for it, though, and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. She'd never realised that Hermione's eyes were such a lovely shade of brown; rich, warm, bright and very intelligent. There was sleepy contentment there, but no trace of the fog that suggested bewitchment. Overcome with fondness, and thrilled to have found someone else who could _hear_ her, she pressed a kiss to the other woman's brow, smiling against her warm skin.

"I am pleased that you can."

* * *

><p>Fleur was stacking split logs of wood under the little lean-to they stored their firing in when a cough sounded behind her. She was very surprised to see Ollivander standing in one of Bill's coats and Gryffindor scarves, marvelling at the scenery.<p>

"My, it has been such a long time…"

Fleur opened her mouth to protest but snapped it shut and shook her head instead. "Perhaps we should go back inside."

"My dear, I have been inside for more than a year," he said, rheumy eyes stern under his grey brow. "Allow me a breath of fresh air."

WIthout waiting for an answer, he moved to the low stone wall that prevented unwary folk from stepping out of the garden and off the cliff. He sat on it and let the fitful sun warm his back. His eyes closed in bliss and he drew in greedy breaths of wet, salty air.

Fleur could not really begrudge him and was pleased to see that his skin had lost it sickly tinge. He was still thin, but the hollows beneath his cheeks and behind his eyebrows had filled out. His eyes no longer seemed sunken or rimmed in black and didn't stream constantly. His hands did not shake as he lifted a stray shell off the wall and turned it in his fingers, examining the mother of pearl.

"I feel more myself than I have in a long time. I have you to thank."

Fleur shook her head. "No thanks are needed. I did nothing special. But, I'm afraid I am going to evict you!"

His bushy eyebrows lifted at her teasing tone and he glanced sidelong at her. "Oh?"

"Yes. When you feel up to Apparating, you will go to Muriel Weasley's home. She has plenty of room and many comforts. Her house is guarded well, too."

"Perhaps she would have a workshop, too," he said, wryly.

Fleur's head spun, her eyes glittering. "You will?"

"I will. Before I go, I shall need the hair and the wood. The rest I shall be able to accomplish easily."

"And it will obey her?"

The old man gave her an arch look. "Madame, we are making this wand with her in mind. My faculties have not yet deserted me so thoroughly that I cannot do this. Though this is not my preferred method, and it has been many years since I have attempted something of this sort, I will do my best."

"I will have the hair by nightfall," she said with such utter confidence that Ollivander frowned at her. "I sent a request several days ago," she admitted sheepishly. "I had no doubts about your willingness to help!"

Ollivander laughed softly and closed his eyes, listening to the surf hiss over the stones and sand. "I will need wood. You mentioned that you collected wand wood before?"

"It is expected of veela to know the woods well enough to find ones own wand. I will leave immediately. Well, after I have escorted you to the sitting room. I believe your new vigour deserves a toast!"

* * *

><p>Fleur's hair was pulled into a tight braid and then twisted then into a bun. She had draped a green cloak over her shoulders and set out with her wand in her belt and a long knife beside it. The sand dunes gave way to salt marshes and they to scrubby heath. In time, she saw a vale ahead of her, a jagged black cliff edge along one side. A silver ribbon glittered down the cliff side about half a mile distant, sparkling in the afternoon sun. The western side sloped more gently, though still steeply, into the dark copse. Several acres of woodland were hidden there, branches whispering against one another in the light wind. It gave the impression that part of the moor had sunk long ago, leaving a sheltered place where a few trees could take root.<p>

She soon found herself sliding through a periphery of briars and ferns. The little wood was young, more or less. Here and there stood ancient, gnarled hawthorne and yew trees but most of the trees around her were barely into their fourth decade. Handsome ash, birch, rowan and several sycamore raced for the light and she was delighted to note honeysuckle wound around them. Here and there, a bush of holly bristled at her, glossy leaves warning her away.

Long ago, she'd been taught to empty her mind of thoughts of now. Now was a purely human time and had no place in a wood, even one as young as this. She closed her eyes and remembered the woods her grandmother guarded. She'd been sent out beneath trees taller than cathedrals and certainly more splendid. She'd found knot holes large enough to sleep in and watched herds of bison trundle by as she watched from branches wider than tall men.

The little wood was listening to her and marvelled at the wonders she brought to mind. She began to hum a tune she'd long ago learned and every leaf strained forward to hear her. Birds paused in their song before flitting closer to hear hers. Mice in the litter stopped scuttling and lifted curious, beady eyes to her. A hare stood on its haunches to watch her, head cocked to one side as she passed. The ground sloped ever downwards, a series of gentle terraces and hillocks covered in brown, soft leaves. Bluebells raised curious heads towards her and wild hyacinth bloomed in joy as she passed.

She let her song trail off and watched life resume its normal flow in the little wood. She opened her ears, eyes and nose the world around her and caught the music of water a ways off. Instinct told her to raise her hood and move silently. The trees changed now, as did the floor of the wood. Willow, alder and hazel spread themselves over boggy, wet ground. Hummocks of delightfully springy moss allowed her passage without wetting her shoes too badly. Small flowers, orchids and the like, were scattered at her feet. She heard running water and paused, stooping to a crouch and crawling forward. She pulled herself forward and leaned around an alder.

She could a narrow stream flowing through a deep channel cut into the same black rock of the cliffs it flowed over, catching the sunlight as it gurgled downstream. As it wound on its way, it broadened and seemed to gain distinct banks. She remained still and wondered what had brought her here.

The answer came, oddly, from the water. A dark, neat little head broke the surface of the stream, having a good look around before ducking back below. Moments later, a long yet short body burst from the water and onto the rocky shore. It paused and shook itself, again having a little look around before standing up, balanced on its long, flat tail and whistling for a moment. Fleur, having heard songs from many creatures, thought it was a rather jaunty little ditty. She resisted the urge to whistle it back, though.

The otter, for it could be nothing else, shook itself again and loped down stream, gambolling along towards the banks. Fleur moved silently, tracking its movement down stream. They moved at a fair clip for about five minutes before arriving at a wide curve of the stream, an elbow of water with a sandy shore on its outer side. Fleur settled behind a patch of adolescent reeds and watched as the otter flopped down onto the sand, rolling onto its back and kicking its legs into the air. It lolled for a few moments before hopping up and racing into the water, diving in without hesitation. It emerged moments later with a little silver fish in its jaws.

At a short 'peep', another otter emerged from a dark space in the bank adjoining the sandy shore. Fleur watched the other animal approach and nuzzle its mate, rolling with it and chasing it around. The first, the dog, eventually lay on his back and gave a plaintive mewl. The bitch sat back and waved her forelegs. The dog ran to retrieve the fish and set it before her. She ate quickly and then butted her head into his chest, affection evident. She turned lay on her back, letting the sun warm her belly. Fleur noted parallel marks running the length of her belly and realised the otters were supporting a den of pups. Her dark fur, though lighter than on her back, was flattened where her pups had suckled. The pair lazed in the sun for a moment before heading into the holt.

Fleur sat utterly still in the still air, looking for the first time at the opposite bank. Without otters to distract her, she noticed that the holt had been dug under an ancient, spreading blackthorn. The tree was covered, from crown downwards, in the most incredible wreath of white flowers that Fleur had ever seen. The gnarled, ugly wood bore an incredible inflorescence of delicate white blossoms and the witch felt drawn towards it. She retraced her steps upriver slightly to a narrow point and turned into the woods somewhat, to ensure she did not disturb the otters' shore.

The ground around the stately old tree was free of tree or shrub or bramble. A few crocuses and several delicate strands of sweet pea decorated the approach but the old tree stood alone. It was tall for one of its kind, easily topping twenty feet. On closer inspection, she saw that _three_ separate trees had grown together; trunks still just distinguishable from one another. Their branches had melded and mixed together until they were impossible to tell apart. Fleur laid her hand on each trunk at a time, closing her eyes and whispering quietly.

She settled on the westernmost tree and moved to the side of it, observing a large, wind felled branch. It was as thick as her wrist but tapered quickly. The heartwood was almost red, though somewhat bleached. Singing an ancient song she had been taught long ago, she begged permission to use it. In answer, several white blooms fell around her shoulders, spreading a glorious scent as they went. She lifted her knife and cut free the last few splinters joining the bough to the tree. Lifting the branch, she trimmed all above about two feet from the break. She tucked the wood into her belt and threw her hood back, unwinding her braid.

Unbound, her hair was long enough to sit on. Braided, it still reached more than halfway down her back. Without a second thought, she drew her plait forward over her shoulder and cut straight through it. She felt the remains of her plait bounce between her shoulder blades, unravelling in the wind. She took the length of braid and, securing the loose ends, tied it to a sound branch of the tree.

A gust of wind blew through the valley, bringing her hair into flight around her face. A hail of blossoms from the blackthorn surrounded her and she closed her eyes in contentment.

* * *

><p>"Bloody hell, Fleur," Bill muttered, brushing her wet hair with a fine comb. "At least you used a sharp knife!"<p>

"But of course!" she hummed, enjoying having her hair played with.

"I reckon I need to take about an inch off the longest bits to even it out. That all right?"

"Bob it around a pudding bowl if you wish!" she sighed. She didn't regret what she'd done but she was a little bit sad to see her hair gone. She'd been growing it since she was ten or so. _Oh__ well_, she mused, _if __that__'__s__ the __only __casualty __we __suffer __in __this __war, __we__'__ll __be __very __lucky. __Besides, __it __will __grow __back._

"Hmm. I don't think that would suit you, Fleur." Bill set to work, evening out the bottom of his wife's hair. He generally left her hair to herself (and by extension, a hairdresser) but he was more than capable of evening her hair out after her impromptu trim.

"It's a nice length, though," he mused, "makes you look a bit more mature."

"I could suggest a haircut that would make _you_ look more mature!" she teased. "Hand me the clippers!"

"Hush, I'm concentrating. May I ask what was going on?"

Fleur wondered how much she should tell Bill and gnawed her lip. "Can I tell you later?"

"Oh," Bill hummed, deep in concentration. "Is this an after the war later?"

"It is," she affirmed, watching his reflection with great affection. He was an unusually kind human being and somehow managed to mostly keep his suspicious nature out of his personal life. He loved deeply and without reservation. He trusted those he loved entirely and was very loyal to them; he wouldn't press her for an answer. She felt, as she had done since the first day she met him, that she was blessed to have come across someone like him.

"Bill, j'adour."

He paused, lifting his head and smiling widely. "Love you too," he said, dropping a fond kiss to the top of her head.

* * *

><p>Harry rounded the corner of the kitchen door, looking at a book in his hands.<p>

"Fleur, I've finished this volume and I was wondering…" he trailed off when he caught sight of her new hair cut. "Wow, uh, that's um, different."

Fleur raised an eyebrow and touched her hair self consciously. She felt a little bit annoyed by Harry's gawking. She'd been quite shocked by her appearance, when she'd finally gathered the courage to look in a mirror. She'd never begrudge the loss, there had been a price to pay and she was happy to do so. But she was self aware enough to know that she was ever so slightly vain and her hair would be missed. Harry certainly wasn't helping. "Oh? Do you approve?"

Harry blinked and began to take on a slightly panicked look. Fleur felt slightly guilty and berated herself for speaking so sharply. "I'm sorry, ignore me. I felt like a change."

Harry nodded slowly, approaching the table and setting his mother's diary on it. "Um, sorry. I was rude, sorry. It looks very different, you almost look like someone else."

Fleur sighed, she was being needlessly touchy. "Don't apologise, I was the one being rude. I'm getting used to it. I suspect my mother will not be happy when she sees me." They regarded each other for a long moment before they began laughing, the absurdity of the situation overwhelming them. "It's so strange!" she said, "I feel like I've lost an arm! It will take some time to grow accustomed to this."

Harry, whose hair had precisely one style that he liked, still appeared to be a bit bewildered. He was about to say something else when Hermione bustled in.

"Harry, where did you put the green jumper?"

"It's my jumper," he said testily. This was an argument they'd had more than once. Hermione had taken a shine to one of his hooded sweat shirts and wore it more than he did. He currently had it in the wash with Ron's gear knowing Hermione would avoid that particular basket at all costs. Fleur smiled, she'd been privy to this discussion more than once. Hermione turned to her and her eyes widened.

"Oh my. Fleur, your hair looks lovely," she said, her eyes soft. "It really suits you." Fleur felt her heart give a little thump in her chest and she stood up straighter.

"Well, thank you," she said, cursing herself for blushing. "Nothing quite like a new haircut, is there?"

Hermione was still staring at her, smiling gently. "Well, it looks fantastic. Is it weird though? I'd never be brave enough to cut my hair so short in one go."

Harry was edging for the door, obviously finding the conversation a bit too girly for his liking. Fleur took mercy on him and pretended she didn't notice his escape.

"Well, we all need a change every now and again."

Hermione stepped closer, walking behind Fleur to look at the back. "Maybe I should cut my hair," she mused. "If it was shorter, maybe it would be easier to handle. Or resemble a hedgehog. It's risky."

Fleur laughed and turned to face her, noticing the happy cast of Hermione's features. They were closer than she realised and the shorter witch had to tip her head up to see her properly. Hermione was studying her hair, but her eyes found her own again. Fleur felt her flush darken and it felt as if the kitchen was spinning around her.

_She__'__s__ gorgeous_, she thought. She shook her head to clear it, stepping back. "I'd better find Harry, I think he wants the next diary."

Hermione looked somewhat confused but nodded. Fleur left her and sped out of the room.

_Shit_, she thought, _that__'__s __the __last __thing __I __need_.

* * *

><p>Hermione sat with her head in her hands, sighing hugely. "I still think that we should try and concentrate on getting in the back way. I think that with a bit of surveillance, we could figure out the guards' schedule and make our way in."<p>

"That has merit," Griphook agreed, grudgingly, "but you are tall. Only goblins use the back door."

"We have the cloak," she argued. "I've been looking into a couple of shrinking spells too."

"But that will take time," Harry said, quietly. "We'd have to spend weeks doing that."

"But _this_ is taking forever," Ron groaned. "I mean, we're still looking at at least two more weeks, aren't we?"

"You run in to Gringott's half cocked, you'll end up dead," Griphook added, smiling nastily. "Not that that isn't on the cards anyway."

Hermione felt her face flush in anger. She was really starting to dislike Griphook. He was cruel, malicious and didn't seem bothered with the idea of killing any wizard guards they might encounter. She saw Ron's neck turn red and held out a hand, sensing a major eruption.

"We should stop. It's almost tea time. Why don't we take a break, we can always come back afterwards."

Ron nodded, standing and rushing out the door. Harry nodded, thankful for Hermione's intervention. She knew he distrusted the goblin too but they had no choice; they had to plan carefully and strike precisely. She gathered up all their notes and maps, tucking them into a folder which went into her bag. Griphook slunk out, heading for the other guest room.

"Walk, then?" Harry asked, rubbing his forehead. "I feel like we've been here for months."

Hermione nodded. They met Ron in the living room and gathered their coats, blustery April winds making them quite necessary. They passed Fleur and Dean in the kitchen, chatting happily as they prepared dinner. Fleur waved and smiled, caught in a happy moment. Hermione felt her face settle into a wide grin, the sight lightening her heart. Dean teased the boys about their 'evening constitutional' but without even a hint of malice.

They passed Luna and Bill, sitting in the garden concentrating on an empty pickling jar. Hermione had no desire to know what was going on, for she suspected it was one of those things that would make her head sore, given that both Luna and Bill were wearing large spectacles with red lenses.

The trio walked for a while in companionable silence, watching birds skim the waves.

"Did you see Dean?" Ron asked, after a while. "Slicing carrots."

"Better than being stuck up in the room with Griphook all day," Harry said, somewhat wryly.

They were quiet for a moment. "You know," Hermione said, "they were having fun. Just, enjoying the evening."

"Lucky them," Harry said, his face grim.

Hermione felt her mind wander a bit, idly watching the sea. "Fleur's cheerful. I never really noticed it about her before. She's really kept everyones' spirits up."

Harry nodded, then smiled. "You decided she isn't all that bad after all, then?"

"You hated her, before," Ron huffed.

"I was being childish," Hermione said. "She's been very kind to us. She and Bill both."

They were quiet for a while, walking in the damp sand. Ron kicked a stone and shook his head.

"I think we need to be careful of her."

Harry and Hermione actually stopped in their tracks, staring at the back of Ron's head and his hunched shoulders. They shared a flabbergasted look before hurrying after him.

"What makes you say that?" Harry asked, frowning. Ron frowned darkly, shaking his head. "No, mate, you can't just say something like that and drop it! Why don't you trust her?"

"You don't want to know," he answered, gruffly.

"Enquiring minds and all. Come on Ron, what is it?" Harry asked, standing in front of his friend. "Please," he added, gently, "we can't afford the same foul ups again."

Ron was quiet for a long while, which made Hermione quite worried. He folded his arms and sighed.

"The day after we got here, I wanted a shave so I asked Bill for a razor-"

"I had razors in my bag," Hermione reminded, frowning.

"Yeah, you weren't well," he said, sadly. "I didn't want to bother you over something stupid so I asked him. He sent me into his bathroom, told me to use whatever I wanted."

"And you discovered that Fleur had a poster of you-know-who over the toilet?" Harry asked, folding his arms himself.

"Don't be daft. No, I was, um…"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Being nosy, I imagine. Spit it out, Ronald."

"She had this muggle medicine," Ron said, frowning mightily, "like, really nasty stuff…"

Hermione's heart came to a crashing halt in her chest. She drew a deep breath, waiting for Ron to continue. He'd obviously stumbled across the emergency contraception that Fleur had bought for her. She held her breath, dread gathering in her belly. She had absolutely no desire to revisit those awful days where she'd seen the true horrors of the new regime laid bare before her. She also felt somewhat protective of her friends; she was quite sure that the idea of rape didn't exist in the boys' frame of reference except in a very abstract way. She wasn't going to be the one who changed that.

More importantly, admitting that it had existed as even a vague possibility was terrifying.

"Ronald, whatever you found was none of your business," she said, adopting her bossiest tone. "Really, you're a grown wizard, not some little boy."

"What was it?" Harry asked, frowning. Hermione knew that, having lived as much of his life in the muggle world as she had, he knew that muggles didn't tend to have really nasty things in their homes.

Ron flushed, his ears turning bright red. "Ur, well, it was just… It was something you take to, you know… If you're pregnant and don't want to be."

Harry's eyes widened with shock and Hermione turned furious eyes to Ron. "First of all, this is none of our business! You shouldn't have gone snooping and you certainly shouldn't have told us about what you found!" she said, very cross indeed.

"Secondly," she said, "that's not how those things work. They don't end pregnancy, they prevent it."

Ron scoffed. "Yeah, well, why would she need that? She's married, isn't she?"

Hermione felt somewhat light headed and realised it was her anger. "Do you really think that now is a good time to have a baby? You saw how distraught Lupin was. Now isn't the time." She spoke quietly now and noted Harry shifting nervously out of the corner of her eye.

"Besides, it's up to her at the end of the day. She's the one who'd be pregnant for nine months. As I've said, it's none of our business."

"That'd be my niece or nephew so it is my business," he snapped.

Harry stepped between them, hands held up. "Hermione's right, Ron. This isn't anything to do with us. It's between Bill and Fleur, all right?"

Ron glowered and stomped off, turning after a few paces. "Whatever, mate. But I don't trust her. She acts all nice and lovely, but she's a sly one."

He walked off, leaving Hermione and Harry alone. "Sly because she wants to actually plan her life," Hermione sighed. "Sometimes, I don't know how he thinks. Or _if_ he thinks, for that matter."

Harry's ears were flushed and he coughed. "Well. That's more information about Bill and Fleur than I ever really needed to know," he joked.

Hermione laughed, relieved that at least one of her friends was vaguely sensible. She took his arm and they turned to look out over the sea.

"Explains why he's been so short with her, though," Harry said thoughtfully. "I thought he was just, you know, embarrassed about what an arse he'd been back in the day."

"Well, he probably is," Hermione agreed. "But to hear him speak, you'd think we were living in the darks ages!" She sighed her annoyance. The thought popped into her head that Ron had picked a fine time to actually start reading labels and instructions.

Harry nodded. "You ever think, Hermione, that the wizarding world is pretty weird when it comes to having children?"

"Often, Harry. Quite often."

* * *

><p>Dean and Fleur were putting the finishing touches on their casserole and chatting about unimportant things. She found her guest to be friendly, engaging and positive. He was keen to get back to his family but knew that doing so could make them targets for the new regime. He was resigned to his fate but cheerful about it, glad that they hadn't been threatened.<p>

"The best thing is, once it's assembled, you can forget about it," Fleur said, shoving the deep dish into the oven. "Easy."

"Yeah, mam used to make them at night. When she was going out to work, she'd put the oven on a timer so it'd come on at the right time. It'd be ready when we all got home."

Fleur was thoroughly impressed by that. It was incredible how muggles always found ways to work around their limitations. She herself was cheating quite badly; with some magical embellishment, her casserole would need only an hour in the oven.

"So," she asked, setting the peeler after a bag of potatoes, "what is Luna up to with Bill?"

"Trying to gather gully fluffs," he said, grinning. "Luna wants to capture a couple of Cornish Pixies and the easiest way is, apparently, to use a lobster pot stuffed with gully fluffs."

Fleur nodded, she'd heard that too. She wasn't sure if a lobster pot would hold the little devils, though. "It is a particularly fine day for gully fluffs," she remarked. "I haven't seen so many in a long time."

Dean frowned, as if wondering whether Fleur was being serious or not. Eventually, he shrugged and went to get the potato saucepan.

Fleur felt unusually contented. Things had finally settled into a somewhat normal pattern, which proved a great relief to all and sundry. It was nice to know that dinner would happen at the same time every day and that her guests could go to sleep without fear of discovery or harm.

Between the Fidelus charm and the other protective measures they'd instituted, it would take a very determined enemy to breach their defences. It would require Bill to tell someone and aside from Remus Lupin, no one knew. Molly and Arthur knew where they were, but without being told specifically, they'd never find the little house. The Fidelus charm was strange like that, she knew. Molly and Arthur had taken their family to Shell Cottage when they were small and fewer in number but now that it was protected, they'd never be able to locate it.

The house was lively, slightly raucous and often filled with laughter. Somehow, despite the plans being hatched, the outside world seemed further and further away as the days progressed. Only Bill and herself ventured out and even then did so only in times of absolute need. They'd settled into their own pattern and all seemed happy. She knew well that with the world churning around them, such peace would not last forever. It was important to enjoy the time given them, to laugh and heal their wounds while they still could.

Shell Cottage was beginning to remind her of her own home, which pleased and saddened her at the same time. Growing up, there had been a constant stream of visitors; of veela cousins wanting to see some of the outside world or her father's siblings and their families. There had always been someone staying, be it for a night or a month, and Fleur had adored it. By the time Gabrielle had arrived, Fleur had been quite experienced in minding small children and had appointed herself chief baby sitter of her tiny sister. She realised now that her mother and father had been quite indulgent with her, letting her believe she was a child minder _par_ _excellence_ when in fact Gabrielle had been a particularly placid baby.

She smiled at the memory and sighed. She hoped they were well; messages were easily intercepted over wide, empty expanse of the channel or on the shore. Her mother's owl had escaped an attack with singed feathers and a missing eye only a month previous and Fleur had no desire to make poor St Juste run another potentially fatal gauntlet. She'd been experimenting with bewitching gulls to carry messages with somewhat promising results. One in particular, a large and hoary specimen, seemed happy enough to act as her courier. She'd yet to use him, just in case, but reasoned that the forces of the enemy couldn't shoot down every single bird that flew over the channel. A gull might pass where an owl would not.

She sent the last of the potatoes into the pot of boiling water that Dean had readied, thanking him. She clapped her hands, all preparation done. Smiling, Dean pulled on his jacket and went outside to investigate proceedings. Fleur began to hum to herself, happy and content for the moment. She lifted one of Lily's diaries and resumed reading, keeping an idle eye on the spuds.

Some time later, the door opened to admit a wind bitten Hermione. Fleur felt herself smile widely in greeting and patted the chair beside her. The brunette thanked her and removed her outer layers, smiling back.

"Is it cold out there?"

"No, not at all. But it was a bit windy up on the cliff," she said, patting her cheeks as they reddened in the kitchen's warmth.

Fleur was charmed, utterly so. Hermione's bushy hair was wild around her face, held somewhat in check by a loose pony tail. Her eyes were shining in the golden evening light and her cheeks reddened by the breeze. She began to speak about a seal they'd seen on their walk, happily chattering.

Captivated, Fleur settled her face in her hand, listening with fond attention. Hermione spoke with her hands, expressing herself exuberantly. It was a welcome change from the stiff, closed posture of weeks previous.

_She is truly lovely_ Fleur thought to herself, _more so because she doesn't realise it._

Fleur resisted the urge to shake her head ruefully. What a time for some silly bit of attraction to rear its head! She admitted it readily to herself, what point was there in denying it? She'd been caught out several days previous when Hermione had gazed up at her, admiring her openly. It was a very welcome change from the usual furtive glances and badly concealed stares she often received. The strength behind her gaze and the honest appreciation were refreshing to behold.

She was coming back to herself as well, Fleur thought. She'd spent some time with Hermione and Ginny the summer before last but had gotten the impression that they hadn't cared very much for her company. She hadn't been bothered by it, they'd been young and at that age where the opinion of anyone outside their peer group counted for very little. Hermione had never been rude, though, unlike Ginny who probably thought Fleur didn't realise she'd been called Phlegm on more than one occasion. It hadn't annoyed Fleur, on the contrary. She enjoyed Ginny's spirit, finding her the most similar to Bill out of all the Weasleys.

Most similar and probably closest to, as well. Bill was very fond of his sister, protective in the way that older brothers are but also curious about her, delighting in her mischief. He'd been proud of her efforts in Dumbledore's Army under Umbridge and more so under the new regime. He had a lot of time for her too, regretting their current seclusion somewhat. He'd told Ginny, after swearing her to secrecy, of the truth of who was in Shell Cottage. She'd demanded to come but Bill had reminded her that a secret safe house wasn't much good if too many people knew about it. She'd agreed, suspiciously easily Fleur thought, and had been quiet for several weeks now. Fleur suspected she was planning something and hoped it wouldn't be anything outrageous. So far, she'd kept her word; no one knew who else was in the cottage.

Fleur shifted in her seat, stretching languidly. The warmth of the kitchen and familiar aromas were making her sleepy. Hermione shook her head.

"Are you sure you weren't a cat in a previous life?"

Fleur's eyebrows shot up. "Me? I'm quite sure I'd remember it if I had been. Why do you ask?"

"Well, Crookshanks does the same thing."

Fleur frowned. "That giant kneazle who follows you around? Where is he, by the way?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "He isn't giant and he's only half kneazle," she sighed. "I left him with Ginny. I suppose, I hope, he's still with her in Muriel's.

"He attempted to make a bed of my wedding dress, you know," Fleur said, shaking her head. "Thankfully, Mrs Weasley is adept at removing ginger hair from clean clothes."

Hermione's hands went to her mouth, apparently horribly embarrassed. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I had no idea."

Fleur chuckled. "Well, he did no harm. Do not apologise. Why not ask Bill if he is there? I'm sure he knows."

Hermione smiled brightly. "I will. I, well, I didn't want to bother him with something so trivial."

Fleur leaned forward, laying her hand on Hermione's arm. "Asking after our friends is never trivial, even if they're not human."

Hermione turned her bright eyes to Fleur, softness there. She clasped Fleur's hand gently. "Given the times we're in, perhaps especially if they're not."

Fleur's heart sped up. _Oh, __the __things __she __does __without__ even__ knowing_. She drew back gently, getting up to check the potatoes.

"Perhaps we could see about him coming here? If it would not raises suspicions," Fleur said, peering into the oven.

Hermione's face lit at that and she nodded enthusiastically. "I'd like that, I really would."

"We shall see," Fleur said. "Call the others, please, dinner is ready."

* * *

><p>Fleur was working in the parlour, reading over another of Lily's diaries. She'd been through them all many times before but she found herself gaining better insight each time she revisited them. She was currently reading one from when the witch was still unmarried, though seeing James seriously.<p>

_That there is a power in moments is something I've known for a long time. I think back to the times that stick in my head as if I took a photograph of them. Moments of love and of anger. Telling James I loved him but that he needed to be less of an arse if he wanted to get serious. Angry words with friends. Petunia refusing to let me go to visit mum when she was sick at home with her. The first time I watched someone die._

_But as life goes on and you accumulate them, does it lessen their value? I mean, does life itself become less precious as you get older? I don't think so; imagine all the experience and wisdom of age. But maybe people don't appreciate them as they once did. Is that the secret? That in order to truly understand magic and to wield it properly, you have to love your life and value its moments?_

_It's got a nice ring to it. It doesn't explain why V is so bloody powerful, though. Maybe when you live such an unhappy life, if you value it so little, you go through to the other side. The side where magic is twisted and wrong. Where the natural world is forced into vile shapes to fit human desire._

_Perhaps it's easier that way. It's easier to run from the truth of your own existence, to abandon the burden of your humanity. To just grab what strands of power you can and tug them into something new._

_But it's doomed to failure because at the end of the day, the world has existed far longer than we have. It knows how it wants to be and I doubt it appreciates being manipulated. So is true change only possible when you find the grain of all things and run with it?_

Fleur was interrupted by Bill sticking his head into the room, grinning at her.

"Just back from Muriel's, pet. Guess who sent over some pressies?" He held up a wrapped package for her to see.

Fleur's eyes widened and she leapt up, smiling widely. "That was quick!" He'd only been gone for six days! She rushed over to Bill and kissed his cheek, taking the package from him. She ran upstairs, hopping up onto her bed and ripping at the paper with great impatience. A long, handsome case fell into her hands, a small flower inlaid in pale wood in the centre. A piece of heavy parchment drifted onto the duvet and she snatched up up.

_My dear Fleur,_

_I hope these dark days find you well. I continue to gain strength; who could not under the combined efforts of Madams Weasley and Prewett? Arthur assisted me in constructing a crude workshop and his twins have shown remarkable aptitude for wood craft. Were they not so busily involved in their own industry, I'd attempt to entice an apprentice! All here are well and send their regards._

_Please find enclosed Miss Granger's new wand. Blackthorn, twelve and one half inch, quite firm, veela hair core. A fine wand, if I say so myself. I noted no hint of the mercurial nature apparently inherent to veela hair- for which I am thankful. _

_I felt that this wand should be given to Miss Granger by you, not by owl. Please give her my regards._

_Yours fondly,_

_Garrick Ollivander_

Fleur ran a hand over the top of the box but did not open it, though she greatly wished to. Setting it down on the bedside locker, she hurried to the door of the small room and knocked sharply. Ron's truculent head appeared in a small gap, glaring balefully at her.

"What?"

Taken somewhat aback, Fleur blinked. Ron yelped as if struck and withdrew. Hermione replaced him, shooting a stern look over her shoulder. "Really, Ronald! Fleur," she said, turning to her host. "Is everything all right?"

"I know you're busy, but I need to speak with you, Hermione. Could you spare a few moments, please?"

It was Hermione's turn to blink and she did so several times. She turned back and declared a break in proceedings before wiggling out through the gap in the door. She smiled sheepishly at Fleur and appeared quite apologetic. Both were well aware that locking oneself in a bedroom while a guest was quite rude. To refuse to say why this was happening was even worse.

"Follow me, please," she said, her excitement hard to contain. She almost took hold of Hermione's hand in her haste.

"Fleur, what's going on?" Hermione asked, somewhat bemused. "Is everything all right?"

"Well, I don't know," the blonde replied with a wink, "you tell me!" she declared, setting the smooth wooden box in Hermione's hand. The brunette frowned, thoroughly confused and opened the elegant box. On spying the contents, she began to shake and sat down heavily on the bed. Immediately concerned, Fleur sat beside her. She waited a moment, as Hermione lifted the wand with trembling hands.

"It's mine, isn't it?" she said, not expecting an answer. From the moment she opened the box, she had known the truth of it. She turned the dark, varnished wood over in her hands, setting the box aside. The wand was quite smooth but bore several bumps along the side that were just visible. It tapered elegantly and fit her hand almost exactly. Fleur was utterly charmed to spy, on the base, an inlaid cockle-shaped shell carved from mother of pearl.

"Lumos," she whispered, watching a bright light issue forth. She waved the wand and a little ball of purple flame appeared bobbing in mid air, glowing merrily. She lifted her hand and it floated to rest over her palm. Fleur, who'd never seen such a thing, was delighted at the sight. Eventually, Hermione sent the little flame to rest in the fireplace.

"Mr Ollivander sent this," she said, wonder in her voice.

"He did," Fleur confirmed. "And one for Luna, I believe."

Hermione frowned, still examining the wand. "What about the boys?"

"They have wands which they won in duels. They will be served well by them."

"But Luna's was stolen and Bellatrix's was, I mean I never won it from her. It never obeyed me, really."

Fleur nodded and touched Hermione's shoulder. "Precisely. We could not risk it betraying you."

"What is it?" Hermione asked, eyes meeting Fleur's with most of their usual lustre, something which had often been lacking since her arrival in the cottage.

"Blackthorn, also called May blossom, twelve and a half inches," here Fleur paused because the truth was slightly embarrassing. "A veela hair core."

Hermione gave an unexpected gasp at that. "Veela? Is that why you cut your hair?" she asked, frowning.

Fleur self consciously ran her hand through her shortened locks. "Perhaps I wanted a change, eh?" Hermione was trying to look stern but the effect was ruined by a twitch at the corner of her mouth. "It is from my grandmother."

"Fleur, this is an honour," she said, a lump forming in her throat. "Oh, Fleur, it feels right! It's not fighting me or trying to get away." She threw her arms around Fleur's neck, kissing the side of her face before resting her cheek against soft silvery hair. "Thank you so much."

Fleur was helpless to do anything but wrap her arms around the young woman in her arms and hold her.

"Thank you so much," she repeated, her left hand coming to rest on Fleur's back. The French woman closed her eyes, very much enjoying the feel of the other witch in her arms. As she breathed in, the thought came to her that she and Hermione were bound now by more than casual acquaintance. The idea pleased her greatly, even as it terrified her, and she basked in warm affection, freely given and gladly received.

_You__'__re __gone,__ Fleur. __She __has __you_.


	5. No Oceans Left

Dear Reader,

Well, you're still here? Fantastic! Many thanks to all those who reviewed, it is heart warming and inspiring to hear what you had to say. Some of your points definitely got me thinking, which is always a good thing. So please, keep them coming! This one is long, even for me. I advise a cup of tea or a tasty beer, whichever you prefer. On with the show.

* * *

><p>The fire in the grate cracked softly, the firewood glowing red and edged with white ash at this late hour. Hermione stared at it, her mind uncharacteristically vacant. She'd spent the evening attempting to read a book about defensive charms but had failed to absorb anything of importance. She was tired after a full day of planning and wanted nothing better than to rest. Unfortunately, she wasn't in the slightest bit sleepy and knew that if she went to bed, she'd spend the night tossing and turning. She was cognisant of the fact that she was sharing a room and felt reluctant to inflict her restlessness on Luna.<p>

She rubbed her eyes before turning her attention back to the fire. It would burn itself out soon but there was no point in adding more fuel, she was the only one awake in the little house. It was somewhat lonesome, she thought, sitting and listening to the wind and surf with no company.

It was an unusual thought for her because she was someone who was usually quite happy to be alone with her thoughts. She'd always been content in her own company, able to read or even just sit and think. But her mind was fatigued, wearied by so much exertion and anxiety. She craved a break but knew that with the world in its current state, there was no time for such luxuries.

She resolved herself to move forward, to leave behind this unhappy gloom and to put her mind to work again.

A last pocket of sap popped open, sprouting a little green flame. Hermione smiled at the sight. She thought back to the previous evening, where she and Fleur had spent time out amongst the dunes experimenting with her new wand. The other witch had loved the shade of her purple flames and had requested them more than once. Using her new wand, Hermione had levitated and transfigured, charmed and jinxed for hours. After the harsh, hateful resistance of Bellatrix's wand, it had been a revelation. She felt as if something in her had opened, setting free things she'd kept dammed.

Fleur had been delighted, laughing and encouraging her. She'd been in her element, Hermione thought, out in the open air and casting spells for the sake of it, for the joy of it. It was strange, she mused, how light hearted Fleur seemed to be. Compared to the other times she'd met her, she was almost a different person. She was warm, caring and cheery. The only time she'd seen her act in such a way had been around her little sister and parents, whom she obviously adored.

Marriage obviously suited her, Hermione mused. She seemed happy here, despite her home being invaded. It was odd, because Fleur had never struck her as unhappy before. Stand-offish, blunt and somewhat aloof but not particularly unhappy. It spoke of a defect in her character, she thought, that she was so unfamiliar with true happiness that she found it strange when she encountered it.

She closed her eyes, the fading heat of the fire comforting. She wrapped her arms around herself and thought back to the embrace that Fleur had caught her in as they trudged home, the sun setting behind them. It had been casual and effortless, Fleur's pleasure at seeing Hermione's performance spilling over. She'd never been one for hugs, but she found she didn't mind Fleur's. They were much like the little fire, comforting and warm in cold, dark times.

_Besides_, she scolded herself, _you've become accustomed to them, what with all the hanging out of her you've been doing._

She stood, banishing the thought. She felt that, given all that was happening in the world, she was entitled to a little bit of affection every now and again. She put the screen in front of the fire and stretched her spine, finally feeling tired enough to attempt sleep. She turned the lamps off with a flick of her wand and quietly ascended the stairs. The little house creaked and shuddered, settling itself for the night.

_Hopefully, I'll do the same._

* * *

><p>Hermione awoke abruptly, her heart thumping in her chest. Her skin was slick with sweat and rough with goose flesh. She was profoundly terrified, utterly so. She knew that she'd been dreaming. She knew that something horrible had hunted her but beyond that, she had no idea what monsters had preyed upon her. Her heart was lurching around her chest, rolling under her ribs in a horribly erratic manner. She sat up in bed, not sure where she was. The room was dark, with only a tiny sliver of dim light showing between the top of the curtains.<p>

Awareness slowly returned, fragments of her self knitting reluctantly back together as her wide eyes adjusted to the gloom. She was in her bedroom in Shell Cottage. Luna was there too, sound asleep. She was sick with fear, her skin crawling with the ghost of the nightmare. She buried her face in her hands and willed the awful despair away.

The house was quiet in the early morning stillness. It was strange, for the little cottage usually creaked and moaned continuously. She could hear nothing, though, apart from the faint susurrous of Luna's breathing and the crescendo of the tide. No gulls called and no bitterns sang. Life seemed suspended for the while, on hold while fear held sway.

Rank with that same fear, she pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face in them and squeezing her eyes tightly shut. She'd woken like this before, but not for several days. She'd foolishly thought she'd left that part of it behind, that she'd healed a little bit. She took as deep a breath as she dared, mindful of waking Luna. The sound was harsh in the little room, stuttering in her narrowed throat.

Fearful and miserable, she was gripped with such sudden loneliness that she ached for company. It was cold in the hours before dawn, before the fires were lit or the sun rose. She pulled the duvet around her as best she could, unwilling to lie down lest she fall asleep again. The thought of having to face the day exhausted her, leaving her feeling as though she hadn't slept a wink in the previous hours. She didn't want to spend the day cooped up in the room again, arguing with Griphook. She didn't want to do anything, truth be told, apart from sleep.

But sleep was elusive and arduous, her dreams like broken glass beneath bare feet. They littered the floor of her mind, forcing her to stay in a miserable, helpless corner of it. She scrubbed her face and contemplated getting out of bed. The fear was receding now, seeping from her and leaving her limp and aching. Soggy with spent adrenaline.

She lowered her hands and carefully stood, drawing back the covers from her bed and standing slowly. She did her best to avoid the creaky floor boards, reluctant to allow herself to indulge her desire for company by waking poor Luna. She lifted Fleur's blue jumper and slid it over her head, nestling into the warm wool. She poked her feet into her slippers and walked out of the room.

On the hall, she could hear Bill snoring noisily in his room (he had done so since the attack by Greyback, he'd said). She moved downstairs, slowly and softly. Someone else was snoring in the living room, though more quietly than Bill. She pushed the door of the kitchen open and stepped in, blinking at a kerosene lamp that glowed in the little room. She was surprised to see Fleur standing, rumpled and sleepy, over the kettle, apparently willing it to boil more quickly.

Hermione took in the sight of her, bed ruffled and messy. She was wearing an over sized terry cloth dressing gown, her chin buried in it. Her hair was in disarray, tangled at the back and to one side. Her shoulders were slightly slumped and she looked quite grumpy. Hermione closed the door behind her, the small noise catching Fleur's attention. When she turned to face her, the tall witch's eyes were red and puffy, as though she too hadn't slept well.

"Morning," Hermione said, stepping forward. Fleur frowned at her, tipping her head to one side.

"Good morning. You're awake early."

"So are you," Hermione pointed out. "Couldn't sleep?"

Fleur shrugged. "It was too hot. I was uncomfortable and couldn't get back to sleep." she did not, Hermione noted, sound very happy about this. It was somewhat amusing, Fleur's petulant frown and unhappy pout. Hermione felt some of the lingering fear slip from her and cracked a small smile.

"You look very cross," she observed, moving to get a couple of mugs from the cupboard. Her hostess leaned back against the warmth of the stove, making a small sound of grumpy derision.

"I _am_ very cross. I slept poorly, which always aggravates me." She brewed the tea, poking at the bag morosely before setting the lid on the tea pot. "Bill is like a furnace."

Hermione set the pair of mugs on the table and went to the larder to fetch milk and sugar. When she returned, Fleur was wiping her eyes and shaking her head. "Well, have some tea, that will wake you up."

Fleur muttered something in French that was probably very uncharitable and Hermione found herself smiling. There was something terribly endearing about Fleur in her early morning fluster. Despite her bad mood, Fleur poured their tea and handed Hermione her mug. She cradled the mug in cold hands, watching the steam rise. She brought her nose over the hot brew, letting it warm her chilled nose. The act sent a little shiver down her spine and she closed her eyes. She parked herself in the moment, willing herself to exist in it for a while and forget the world around her.

It didn't last, such moments never did. She felt her face folding into a frown against her will and heard Fleur step closer to her.

"Did you know that the only benefit of waking at such an unwholesome hour is that the stars are still bright?" Fleur asked quietly. She laid a gentle hand on her back, encouraging her to move forward.

Hermione complied, opening her eyes as they stepped towards the window, looking out over the dull grey of the Irish sea. The kitchen faced west and the sky was still dark though it was starting to take on a greenish tinge, colour slowly edging back into it. The stars were bright, though sparse. Hermione sipped her tea, somewhat saddened. If they stood there long enough, they'd see them all extinguished, one by one, as the sun rose behind them. Already, the dimmest had been chased from the sky, veiled until night fell.

Birds were beginning to call, small piping inhabitants of the garden for the most part. The gulls had yet to take up their doleful song, waiting for full light.

"You slept poorly, again."

Hermione nodded, there was no point in denying it. Her eyes felt as if they'd been filled with cotton wool. She hadn't seen her reflection but knew she'd be sporting impressive bags. She was, in her opinion, far too young to be developing wrinkles around her eyes but her face wasn't listening.

Fleur said nothing, but slid a friendly arm around her shoulders, squeezing briefly. She was warm and comforting there, solid beside her. She wrapped her own arm around Fleur's waist, tentative but sure of her welcome. She wasn't the most tactile of people but found the contact soothing. The vague bit of awkwardness was chased away by the gentle welcome she received. Fleur pulled her closer and rested her cheek on her forehead, sighing sadly. Hermione relaxed a bit, letting her head nestle against Fleur's as they watched the stars and drank their tea.

Slowly, but surely, the stars faded from sight. The sky brightened then; rose, buff and palest blue as the sun lifted itself into the world. The bird song grew louder, more adding their voices as the day began. But before the sun could show more than a sliver of its head, a bank of cloud spread. Chased by a southerly wind, the sky quickly filled with flat, low cloud. The morning dimmed and Hermione thought the birds sang with less enthusiasm. The wind met the grey sea, rising froth and wave.

"_But the dawn is brief and the day full often belies its promise_," Hermione said, softly. She felt Fleur's head move above hers and closed her eyes. Fleur set her empty mug down upon the windowsill and took Hermione's, setting it down with a gentle clink. She felt herself be drawn deeper into the embrace, turned and held with both arms. She laid her cheek against Fleur's shoulder, eyes still closed.

They were silent for a long time, still together in each other's company. Hermione relished the feeling, drank in the warmth and care offered. She felt like a child then, wounded and yearning for the simple comfort of understanding arms. It was almost as if the reality of her world was too much to face otherwise. Whenever she brought her mind around to it, she fled. Her mind, her heart, couldn't understand what had happened, what was going to happen, and had abandoned her. She could plan, indeed she could, but she couldn't get herself around the sharp edges of her memory. There was always something there to cut and snare. She'd been hiding from it but there, in the dim light of an unpromising dawn, she could find no refuge.

She felt too raw, too exposed, to even try. Her back was bared to the world and it had flogged her. Her comprehension failed and she was left reeling, unable to bring her intellect to bear on this problem. Emotions that she'd been ignoring welled up, suffocating in their intensity. She felt so _wrong_ and had no idea how to get back to right again, or even if she could. She felt like she'd lost part of herself but she couldn't tell which part. Perhaps she'd never known herself, really, to be going around losing bits.

So she just nestled into Fleur's arms and took the peace offered, the escape. Some old, or young, part of her was soothed even as her intellect scoffed with derision. Was she such a pathetic creature to be reduced to this? To base, animal comfort when her mind failed her? Betrayed her. She wasn't merely alone in this, she'd been abandoned by the best parts of her. She felt absolutely unequipped, defenceless against the anguish and despair that filled her.

She sighed wearily and Fleur adjusted her grip, holding her more securely. "Whatever monsters you may be fighting," she whispered, "you need not stand alone against them."

She was quiet for a long time, desperate to speak but without a clue as to what to say. Fleur lifted a hand and smoothed her hair.

"You're not alone."

* * *

><p>As she sat eating breakfast with Bill and Harry, Fleur couldn't shake the memory of Hermione's sorrow from her memory. The pair of them had stood for a long time, Hermione clinging to her and burrowing into her chest. Fleur hadn't been sure what had happened, but she understood that Hermione had suffered during the night. The progress she'd made, the costly reclamation of her battered heart, seemed much undone.<p>

She sighed, poking unenthusiastically at her porridge. What could she do, she wondered, to help the poor woman? Was there anything she could do, other than be there to hold her when she needed it? She wasn't sure and she didn't know who to ask for help. Hermione appeared to be a very private person, not one to reveal all her secrets to even her closest friends. It wasn't something that Fleur understood well, this privacy, but she was willing to learn how to work with it for Hermione's sake. There were few parts of her that she didn't readily share with others and she wondered what would make someone so reticent.

_The same thing that makes you so careful about the few things you don't babble about to all and sundry. Those secret parts of you._

She scowled. Now was not the time to be thinking about herself, worrying about her own problems. Her own demons were quiet, for the while, kept in a largely ignored part of her soul. Now was the time to worry about others; about Hermione and the rest. They were so young and had suffered more than she ever had. She clearly remembered Hermione's sad, downcast eyes as she'd slid away from her this morning, muttering about a shower. It had broken Fleur's heart, to see her so sorrowful and wounded.

It had been going so well, she thought dolefully. There'd been such a difference in the short time since they'd arrived and not only in Hermione. Herself, Harry and Ron had lost that gaunt, hunted look they'd arrived with and now seemed healthy. Harry's eyes, while still grave with the weight of his mission, no longer seemed to ache with exhaustion. Ron had put back on the weight he'd lost and seemed more lively. The guilt he'd carried at Christmas was absent, more or less. She still found him tossing abashed glances at Hermione and quite meanly thought he was right to do so.

Absurdly, she found herself a bit jealous of him, too. He obviously considered himself forgiven and she could see him making meek attempts to ingratiate himself with Hermione. He was quite solicitous and clumsily attentive. While the other witch seemed to be having none of it, it irked Fleur that he'd even have the nerve to try. Hermione was obviously vulnerable, hurt as she had been in body and mind, and now the little sneak was trying to worm his way back into her affections?

She shook her head. That was, she knew, a wholly unproductive train of thought to pursue. Besides, what age was she? She scoffed. Evidently, the isolation and exposure to excessive teenage drama was having an adverse affect on her.

Shaking her head, she ate her porridge and reminded herself that there were more important things to worry about. There was much to do and little enough time to accomplish it.

* * *

><p>Hermione sat before the barrier, frowning at it. It was sometimes difficult to wrap ones head around magic, she'd gladly admit, and now was one of those times. In her current spot, she was protected. If she walked five feet, she wouldn't be. It felt strange to depend on someone else's protection, too. She knew that both Bill and Fleur were accomplished and skilled but what the mind knew, the heart sometimes denied.<p>

Here was safe; there was dangerous and there was nothing but a shimmering, opalescent haze between them. It was as if motes of dust had stopped in their incessant tumbling through space, caught in a frozen and surreal moment. Hermione, being a person whose world came to her through her eyes, perceived it best with sight. She knew that Fleur could hear it as well and idly wondered what it sounded like.

The space was so narrow. Such little difference between safety and danger. She drew her knees to her chin and let out an annoyed breath. Harry and Griphook had spent most of the afternoon quarrelling and Ron, of all people, had declared a break in proceedings. She felt relieved that someone else was occasionally acting as chairperson to their little committee. The constant efforts to keep the group moving forward and smooth ruffled feathers were exhausting her. She just didn't want to do it any more.

She knew she was being foolish and that she'd snap out of it sooner or later. These moods were fleeting. They'd always come and gone, with the result that she was quite good at just pulling herself together and getting on with things. Though, if she were to be honest, they seemed to come for longer and longer these days. She put that down to her bad night and awful awakening, though.

She'd not slept well the previous night, although if she were honest she hadn't slept properly in weeks, and was starting to feel frayed around the edges. She was cold and achy with lack of sleep and had almost drifted off standing in Fleur's arms earlier. The boys weren't helping, pulling at her constantly but she knew that they simply didn't comprehend how awful she felt. How could they, when she hadn't told them? She knew they had an incredibly important task but she was so _tired_. She just wanted to curl up and sleep unhindered. She felt washed out and uninspired but for no good reason.

It was frustrating. She'd begun to feel more like her old self, especially after receiving her new wand, but whatever cheer she'd regained had fled. It was like walking up the dunes, where each step upwards slid backwards through soft sand, bringing her almost to her starting point. The guilt was gnawing at her, too. Fleur and Mr Ollivander had gone to enormous effort to provide her with a new wand and she couldn't even perk herself up? She felt ridiculous and utterly childish.

She drew out the wand and studied it. It was beautiful, in truth. Blackthorn made for dark wand wood, not surprisingly. It shone in the sun light and glinted off the little shell at the bottom. It winked at her, an unusual and whimsical addition. She knew Luna's new wand sported one too. It was a wonderful gift and she perceived that it was bound to her will entirely.

She knew that as surely as she knew that Bellatrix had destroyed her own wand. She'd received an insight into how the vicious bitch's mind worked and she was left with no doubt that she'd have broken hers into kindling with rage at being denied her victory. She mourned its loss, felt it deeply. That had been what she'd learned her very first spells on, after all. She'd been attached to it in a way she'd never felt with any other object, which was only natural for a witch, she supposed.

She'd never manifested any magical ability when she was a child, to her knowledge. Strange things hadn't happened to her. She hadn't survived falling out of windows or inflated any dreadful relatives. She'd been quiet and left to her own devices, rarely attracting much attention from anyone. She'd never been good at music, or any games; only lessons. Most of the children she remembered from her youth had called her bossy, none keen to include her.

She hadn't cared, though. She'd thought they were all silly, small-minded bullies and her parents had assured her they were just jealous. She'd always been dubious about that, because she wasn't convinced that she had anything to be jealous of. It sounded like something grown-ups said to fob off an upset child, to her.

But then gloriously, miraculously, she'd received a letter written in green ink and been told that there was another world waiting for her. She'd been so thrilled to receive her wand because when golden sparks had issued forth, she'd known with utter certainty that it was true; she was a witch and there was something enviable about her.

Of course, that hadn't lasted for long. Hogwarts had seemed on course to be the same all over again, until the troll incident. She'd become _herself_ then, over the years. And she had surprised herself; she became someone she quite liked.

But now, with her wand gone and her world in utter chaos, she didn't know who she was anymore. She perceived new coldness, bitterness and anger in her that had never been present before. She felt pathetic, too. She'd been at the mercy of Bellatrix, completely unable to defend herself, and now she felt at the mercy of her own weakness. She found she couldn't pull herself together anymore. She was adrift and hurting, only finding solace in external sources.

Which was most emphatically _not_ who she was. It never would be. But finding ones centre again, finding ones self again, was not an easy exercise. And she had little time in which to accomplish this demanding task.

She lay back on the dune and closed her eyes. There was too much noise in her mind, too much interference. More than ever, she needed to concentrate and get the mission back on track. Left to their own devices, there was no telling what the boys would do. If she didn't cop herself on, she'd be no better than Ron, abandoning them.

She scolded herself for having such uncharitable thoughts about her best friend. but her point stood. She was lost, yes, but she needed to find herself again and with haste. She flopped her head back on the sand, covering her eyes with her hands. Exhaustion gnawed at her limbs, casting them in lead around her.

If that failed, she mused, she could at least pretend.

* * *

><p>The fact that she awoke was the first clue that she'd fallen asleep. Her eyes snapped open to a vast, pale expanse of grey cloud. The light, dim as it was, stung her eyes and she rubbed them, annoyed at herself for drifting off outside. She blinked a couple of times before turning her attention to the blonde beside her. Judging from the piece of grass dangling from her fingers, her awakening had been encouraged.<p>

"Luna," she mumbled, "sorry, I fell asleep."

"I can see that," Luna hummed pleasantly. "You looked very peaceful, but it's almost time for dinner." She sighed, wide grey eyes solemn beneath her wild hair. "It's a shame I had to wake you, it's the first proper sleep you've had in days."

Hermione blushed, sitting up and fussing with her clothes. She shook sand from her hair and frowned. Had everyone noticed her insomnia? "I didn't realise I'd woken you, sorry."

"You didn't, don't worry. I've never been the heaviest sleeper." Luna sat cross legged beside her, staring down at a little red woollen bobble in her hand. It had googly eyes with a felt beak and feet stuck to it. Disconcertingly, the googly eyes were staring up at her.

"Luna, what on earth is that?" she asked, staring down at the odd little thing.

"It's something Bill made, so I wouldn't step past the barrier. He makes an awful row when you go too close. Try him."

Hermione took the proffered bobble, who glared at her. She swung him closer to the barrier and almost dropped him in surprise when he began chirruping and squawking. She tossed the indignant little ball of fluff back to Luna and began laughing. Luna joined her, her carefree voice lilting in the chilly air, lightening the dull sky somewhat.

"I've been trying to think of a name for him," Luna confessed, once she'd calmed down a bit. "What do you think of Grumbles?"

"Screeches, more like," Hermione suggested, settling in a more comfortable position. She looked between Grumbles and the barrier. "You really can't see it?"

"Given its function as a magical barrier, it's _good_ that I can't see it," Luna pointed out. "Though it would be unfortunate to pass through it. I wouldn't find my way back without help."

Hermione nodded, captivated by the shimmer in the air and idly wondering about its nature. Luna let her have her space for a while, sitting quietly beside her.

They sat in companionable silence for a long time before Luna spoke.

"You're unhappy," she said in her gentle manner.

Hermione was quiet, not keen to agree but unable to lie baldly. She waited for Luna to speak again but the other witch was patient, watching her with a sorrowful, understanding expression on her face.

"Aren't I allowed to be?" she asked, finally, sharply. "The world isn't a happy place at the minute."

"Of course you are," Luna said, unfazed by Hermione's harsh tone. "You're right. The world is deeply wounded right now. But we have to try and heal it, as best we can."

Hermione took that in, blushing with anger and shame. "We are trying. I am trying. I've been doing nothing _but_ try for so long…"

Luna was quiet and Hermione made a conscious effort to push her anger away. She bit the inside of her lip and shook her head. Luna's face was sad but filled with her strange wisdom. She sat silently, again, and Hermione felt a tide rise within her, bubbling out of her before she could stop it.

"I've been trying and I'm so tired! I don't even know _why_ we're doing it, at this stage and I don't know if I care anymore! I just," she choked, tears gathering in her eyes, "it's just too much! I don't know how to help, or what to do. I know that every minute we spend here, he's killing our friends and innocent people because we're sitting on our arses! They look to me for all the answers and I just don't have any. I, I know I should be grateful to be alive, to be so well looked after but, but it's unbearable. They want so much from me."

Tears rolled over her cheeks, for what felt like the ten thousandth time in days and she pressed the heel of her hand into her forehead. "I feel so horrible, Luna. I keep thinking about Malfoy Manor and I know I got off lightly but I still feel… I just feel so angry and afraid. I just don't understand, why me? Of course, I _know_ why me, but it doesn't help, you know? I just wanted to help and it's going to get me killed and I don't want to die!"

She felt her shoulders shake but she was unable to stop talking. "So now I feel as if I'm just, some wounded little brat who should know better than to be so upset but I can't stop. Everyone's doing so much and I'm utterly pathetic, feeling sorry for myself. I should be grateful but I just don't know..."

She trailed off, feeling exhausted. "I feel like there's no way out. There's no end or rather, there's only one possible end."

They sat in silence for a long while, Hermione swiping at the tears on her cheeks and sniffling miserably. She felt utterly pathetic and pitiful, ashamed by her weakness and self-absorption. Luna handed her a blue hanky and smiled sadly.

"It's all right, you know," she said gently. She gathered her thoughts, allowing Hermione a moment to blow her nose. "Do you need me to tell me you're not pathetic? Not weak and not to blame for any of this? Do you need me to tell you it's all right to feel like this? That you've been through something horrible and that you're allowed to be a bit selfish afterwards?"

Luna sighed, gazing down at Grumbles for a moment. "What happened to you, it wasn't about finding things out. All she had to do was ask Mr Griphook if she needed to know something. She wanted to make you believe what she does about you. That you're less than her; not really a person. That you're just some toy to be broken and abused. She wanted to take Hermione away from you, leave you someone else. Someone who really was less."

Hermione felt a chill run down her spine at the thought. She stared at Luna, the wind stinging her teary eyes.

"And if you lose Hermione, she'll have succeeded. It's fine to feel a bit lost but you need to find your way back." She cocked her head to one side. "It's as if I wandered outside the barrier without Grumbles, almost. I'd be lost until someone came to fetch me."

She smiled widely. "Except you can see the barrier, can't you? So you're not _really_ lost. Just a bit misplaced. Which is perfectly understandable."

Hermione was quiet then, wiping the last of her tears away. "You were there too, you went through the same thing."

Luna shook her head. "No. They wanted my father to print horrible lies about Harry. I was valuable to them, just like Mr Ollivander. They were unpleasant but they weren't cruel towards me. They were awful to you, they really were."

Hermione didn't quite know how to process that information but she managed to smile weakly at Luna. Despite everything, she was grateful to the other witch for her time. It felt as if a boil had been lanced; pus and rot left exposed but expunged. It wasn't nice to look at, but it could begin to heal.

They were quiet for a while longer before Luna stood, reaching a hand down for her. She let herself be tugged upwards and was quite surprised to find herself squeezed in a tight hug. Bemused, she returned the gesture, affection bubbling through her melting pot of emotion. Luna sighed happily, patting her back.

"There, there. I know it's hard and you've got better reason to be sad than most of us, but please don't be. Don't despair."

Hermione felt weak and woozy, as if she'd actually spilt blood upon the ground rather than figuratively pour her heart out. She felt off balance but she felt lighter, somehow. Fractured, but splinted.

"I won't," she said, softly. "I'm sorry for being such a ninny. I just, it's a lot, you know?" she finished, lamely.

"I know," Luna agreed. "But we have to plough on, regardless."

"Yeah," Hermione sighed, "We do."

* * *

><p>That evening, Hermione decided it was long past time to organise her beaded bag. She still felt quite off balance after her miserable day and wasn't in the mood to speak to anyone. So, the stood surrounded by boxes, bags, crates, trunks, nets and a towering pile of books. The layout of the bag was important; she needed to arrange things in such a way that she could find them easily and quickly. The bigger, bulkier things were sent flying to the bottom, lined neatly against what she thought of as an edge. She stuck her head and arm in the bag, critically eyeing the lie of the land and resolutely not thinking about anything else.<p>

She flicked the bookcase to one side, hoping to make it slightly more accessible. Something crashed off in the distance and she cringed. The shovels, perhaps? She lifted her arm out of the bag and summoned more boxes and crates, sending them into their places. Slowly but surely, order was restored in the little bag. She didn't think they were missing anything, but then there were many things she might have forgotten. She'd asked the boys but they hadn't added anything new.

She stood upright, running a hand through her hair and puffing her cheeks out. She eyed the stack of books with a weary eye. She'd admit to herself, though no one else, that it was slightly excessive. She narrowed her eyes at the stack and pushed her sleeves up.

The pile rose gracefully, each book separating from its neighbours and bobbing in the air, waiting patiently. She frowned and they began to organise themselves, slotting into an order that probably would have baffled anyone other than Hermione herself. So intense was her concentration that she didn't hear the door open.

"Hermione," Fleur called, "I have the washing-" Fleur called, coming into the room behind a tall stack of clean clothes. Startled, Hermione's concentration faded and the books jittered in the air. Two walloped each other, the smaller volume spinning off and almost hitting Fleur in the head. Horrified, Hermione rushed to the other woman, the rest of the books falling forgotten behind her.

"Fleur! I'm so sorry! Are you all right?" she asked, flustered and blushing. Fleur's eyes were wide as she turned, looking at the offending book now lying on the ground.

"Well, at least I didn't drop the washing, eh?" she asked, smiling lopsidedly. Hermione groaned and wiped her face. "Where shall I leave these?"

Hermione nodded to Luna's bed and, once the clothes were settled, sent them into the correct parts of the bag. Fleur knelt, reading the spine of the book with a small frown on her face. She opened it, her bright eyes scanning the page with keen interest. Hermione scowled at the rest, lying untidily all over the ground. Fleur moved to sit on her bed, eyes still caught. Hermione watched her quietly, sitting beside her after a moment.

"_And everywhere, the ceremony of innocence is drowned. The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity_. A cheerful poem, no?"

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know that one well, to be honest. It's one of my dad's books. There're other ones in there he used to read me, when I was little. He never spent time with that one."

"I can see why," Fleur said, finishing the poem. "It is strange, to me."

Hermione nodded. She lifted a book off the floor and sighed. There were a lot to get through. Fleur followed her lead, lifting a slim book and glancing at the blank cover. Hermione jerked upright and reached for it, gently taking it from the surprised woman.

"Nothing interesting, just, you know, homework."

Fleur raised an articulate and eloquent eyebrow but said nothing else. Quickly, Hermione sent the books into the bag, now not too concerned with their order. One remained, the volume of poetry that had belonged to her father. Fleur was flipping through it, a gentle expression on her face.

"I like this muggle's writing," she said. Hermione nodded, sadness once again rising within her. Fleur, ever alert, noticed her melancholy and nudged her with her shoulder. "I wish to read some."

"I didn't know you were interested in poetry," Hermione said, for lack of anything else.

"It is a condition of French citizenship. All that nonsense about liberté, égalité et fraternité is entirely misleading."

Hermione chuckled and, when Fleur pointed to the headboard, scooted around. Fleur sat beside her, on the outside of the bed. They sat shoulder to shoulder, Fleur warm and solid. The scent of washing powder lingered on her, surprisingly comforting. She turned through the pages until she found a poem she liked the look of. Her voice was smooth and gentle, soothing and rich in the little room. Hermione closed her eyes and let herself be transported.

"_I went down to the hazel wood, because a fire was in my head…_"

* * *

><p>"Right, so does everyone understand?" Dean asked, uncharacteristically stern. He stood tall, his arms folded and a serious expression on his face.<p>

"I think so," Bill answered, similarly grave. "We kick the ball between the rocks and we can't pick it up."

"Exactly. And no magic, neither."

"Are you sure it wouldn't be better if we could?" Ron asked, poking the leather ball dubiously with his toe. "It sounds a bit silly."

"Football is not silly, Ronald," Dean intoned, his voice firm. "It's the sport of kings."

"That's actually chess," Hermione whispered to Luna, unable to resist. Dean shot her an annoyed glare but said nothing.

"What about this offside rule? It sounds ridiculous," Ron complained.

"Well, if we get that far, we can go through it again," Dean said, curtly. "Right! I'll take you, Ron. I'll kick your shins open if I don't."

Ron raised an eyebrow at that but trotted to Dean. Hermione rolled her eyes and shared a dubious glance with Luna. Bloody football.

"Um, Bill then," Harry said. He'd been elected the other captain given that he had a rudimentary knowledge of the game.

"Fleur."

"Hermione and Luna." It had been agreed that since Dean could actually play football, his team would be the smaller.

"I'll be referee," Hermione offered, a grimace on her face.

"Oh no you don't," Ron said. "If I have to play this instead of Quidditch, you have to as well."

"Come on, Hermione," Bill cajoled, nudging her with his shoulder. "Bit of fun, right?"

Harry's green eyes were pleading and she nodded, sighing. "Fine, but I'm in goals."

"Right! Great!" Dean shouted. "Let's go!"

So somehow the inhabitants of Shell Cottage, minus Griphook, found themselves playing football on the beach. Harry and Ron had argued the merits of Quidditch but had been told in absolute terms that it was off the cards. Flying about was akin to engraving an invitation for trouble.

After the ball had dropped, the four boys crashed together, shoving and kicking at each other's shins. Dean seemed quite flustered, used to a bit more finesse but managed to break free. Luna stood with grim determination, legs apart and hands raised. He chipped the ball over her head and scooted forwards, running towards Hermione. Bill, who'd left Harry and Ron in a heap on the sand, was sprinting in pusuit.

Dean saw him coming and skilfully manoeuvred away, dodging easily. Bill growled and redoubled his efforts. Dean hopped over an outstretched leg but lost control of the ball. It rolled over to Luna who gamely booted it down the sand, sending it directly into Ron's backside. Harry laughed and dribbled the ball back, trying to get past Fleur. She was taller than him, though, and quick on her feet. After a few moments, he managed to squirm past her, sending the ball into the open goal.

"Yes!" Hermione shouted, despite herself. Dean groaned and Bill threw a victorious fist into the air.

They restarted, each side as unskilled and clumsy as the other. The game involved a lot of shoving, kicking and shouting. They galloped up and down the beach, roaring and punting the ball with great enthusiasm but little skill. Hermione was quite dreadful as a goalie, letting half a dozen goals past her. She'd saved one or two, though she was quite sure she'd earned a bruise on her thigh as a result.

Dean and Ron chased after Harry, both sliding after him and all three landing in a heap. Luna kicked the ball down field, despite the fact that none of her team mates were there, allowing Fleur to gain possession. With a wide grin, the blonde sped up the pitch, laughing with enjoyment. Bill stood before Hermione, a bit winded and waiting for the ball to come to him. He trotted forward and he and Fleur vied for dominance. Eventually, evidently tired of the stalemate, he lifted her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

Fleur shrieked, laughing from her awkward position. Bill kicked the ball to Luna, who made a brave effort for the goal. The three boys were up, pelting after the ball. Hermione turned her attention to the struggle before her.

Bill was grinning widely, a cheeky grin on his face. "There. There's only two of them now, no way we can lose!"

"Bill!" Fleur scolded, red in the face with laughter, "let me down, you arse!"

"Arse? I'm the arse, am I?" Bill asked, lifting an eyebrow. He turned to face Hermione, raising his free hand to point at Fleur's backside, which was more or less level with his face. "She calls _me_ an arse?" he asked, before playfully slapping said body part. Fleur gave an indignant squawk and Hermione couldn't help but laugh.

"William Weasley!" she warned. "I have a firm hold of your boxer shorts! If you do not immediately release me, I will be forced to cut off the supply of blood to your testicles!"

Bill laughed at that but, obviously not a stupid man, gently lowered his wife. He grinned winsomely, though not in a particularly contrite manner, and held Fleur's hands to stop her from hitting him. Hermione was laughing at their antics, leaning her hands on her thighs and completely ignoring the fevered match being played in front of the other goal. Fleur turned to her, narrowing her eyes. She wiggled free from Bill and ran for her. Hermione legged it.

Hermione got several paces before Fleur grabbed her around the waist, lifting her slightly off her feet and spinning her around. "Ah, so you think it's all right to laugh at such horrendous indignity, do you Miss Granger?" she demanded, voice low and husky with humour. Hermione was laughing too hard to reply and Fleur answered by tickling her belly, earning more laughter.

Hermione pulled at Fleur's hands, tugging them away from her sensitive middle. "Stop, please, I'm sorry!" she gasped.

Fleur stilled her hands, but didn't release her. She leaned her mouth close to Hermione's ear. "Do you still think it was funny?"

Hermione bit her lip, some perverse impulse giggling inside her. "Hilarious."

Fleur let out an exasperated sigh and squeezed her playfully. "You're as much as arse as he is!"

Hermione just laughed, letting herself be held. Fleur was a good bit taller than her and surprisingly strong, given her slim frame. But she wasn't rough or cruel, merely playful. Hermione rested her hands on Fleur's enjoying the soft warmth. It felt good to laugh, to fool around and act like an idiot for a little while. She let her laughter trail off and felt Fleur chuckling behind her too.

Ron gave a victorious shout and sent the ball flying past them. Hermione turned and looked up at Fleur, smiling freely.

"So, what's the score? Who's winning?"

"We are," Fleur said, gently and fondly.

* * *

><p>Hermione sat before the wall in her customary spot, arms wrapped around her bent knees. The crash of the surf was soothing, booming on the rocks and sand. Gulls screeched overhead, wheeling on long wings. The wind coming off the water lifted her hair and set the grass covering the dunes to dancing. She felt at peace in the quiet of the afternoon, as though the war was already over and peace restored. The feeling never lasted long, but it heartened her to experience it at all.<p>

She thought back to their game of football, smiling fondly. It had been enjoyable and it had heartened her to realise that she could still have fun. After the awful despair of what she was terming her Bad Day, it had been a balm to her soul. She still didn't quite feel herself yet, but she was getting there.

Soft footsteps interrupted the flow of the world around her and Hermione turned. The sight of Fleur brought a smile to her face and she patted the ground beside her, feeling a happy blush rise on her cheeks. Her hostess folded herself gracefully onto the ground, returning her smile with interest. Hermione dipped her head, a bit embarrassed. The last time they'd been here together, Fleur had cradled her for hours.

It concerned her slightly that she wanted nothing more than to sink into her friend's embrace, to seek the warmth and comfort she knew could be found. She almost ached for it, if truth be known. She'd never been a particularly tactile person, rarely hugging anyone apart from Ginny or Harry, and she didn't know if she wanted to become one. She'd always found the girls around her that had been huggy slightly irritating. Their enthusiastic affection always seemed to her to ring a little bit false; an affectation rather than honestly felt fondness.

Beyond that, she was quite a self-reliant person. She'd been proud of her ability to stand on her own two feet and to now find that what little positivity there was in her life depended on another displeased her. It didn't matter that Fleur was an unusually good and kind person, she wanted to resist the urge to rely on another. It seemed so pathetic and pitiful to her, to have ones entire emotional stability based on someone else. Foolish, even.

Still she found herself wanting to touch Fleur. She supposed there were much worse people to feel this way about, though. Fleur was always hugging someone or patting them on the shoulder or arm. She was a very tactile person and seemed perfectly happy to indulge this nascent part of Hermione's personality. As it was, Fleur sat close to her and bumped her with one shoulder.

"How is my barrier."

"Strong and unbroken," Hermione responded, easily able to see the wall now. "You should be pleased."

"I am," she assured her companion. "Tell me, how are you?"

Hermione understood that this was not a casual question and took some time to think before answering. "I'm well," she said slowly. "I've not had any nightmares for the last two nights. I don't feel quite so exhausted all the time, either. I feel more like myself, as well. But I'm frightened."

"We all are," Fleur sighed, "but you Gryffindors are renowned for your courage. You must master your fear."

"I know."

They were silent for a long moment before Fleur chuckled. "I'm glad you're sleeping, though, and that you're back to yourself."

"Well, that's largely due to you," Hermione reminded her. She turned to face her and felt herself flush. "Thank you for looking after me, for caring for me."

Fleur turned wide eyes to her, incredulous. "Hermione, please, you do not have to thank me for that." Tenderly, she lifted a hand to Hermione's cheek and smoothed her hair away from her face. "You are a most singular person and I am delighted to know you. Please do not thank me for caring for you. It gives me enormous pleasure to do so; the act itself is thanks enough.

Fleur then leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Hermione's mouth. It was quite chaste and entirely innocent but it sent a bolt through Hermione's chest. She felt her mouth go entirely dry and she felt goose-flesh erupt all over her body. Her heart beat was loud in her ears, leaping against her ribs. She felt her breath hitch and her hands trembled. Her face, neck and ears were burning and she realised that she must have flushed like a tomato.

Fleur had drawn back slowly, eyes wide as she took in Hermione's flustered state. She blushed herself, bright red in the evening light. She smiled sheepishly. "Ah, forgive me. French custom."

The word French slammed into the word kiss in Hermione's mind and the area between her legs jumped to attention. She was astounded and mortified at her reaction. She shook her head and looked back at the wall. It appeared disgustingly well, stronger even than when they'd arrived.

"No worries," she said, after far too long a time. She aimed for casual but doubted she sounded anything like it. Fleur had the good grace to let it go and motioned to the wall with her chin.

"It appears solid, at least."

They sat together for a while longer, talking about the weather and other things of no consequence, before heading back to the house. As they neared, Fleur touched Hermione's elbow, causing her to almost jump out of her skin.

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," she said, quietly, "I acted without thought. I'm sorry."

"No! No, it's fine," Hermione insisted, "I'm sorry, I'm such a, I have no idea what I am, honestly," she laughed. Fleur laughed with her too. They entered the house and quickly found plenty of distractions.

* * *

><p>That night, Hermione lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She could still feel the touch of Fleur's lips on her own and lifted her hand, touching the spot. She found the memory to be so strong it was like reliving the moment. She closed her eyes and wondered what it would be like to really kiss Fleur. The thought spent little time in her mind before it headed directly for her privates. She stifled a groan. Her libido had taken a funny damn time to rear its head after a long absence.<p>

All she could now think about was touching Fleur, about how she'd feel and react. From craving contact and closeness, she now burned with curiosity and desire. She thought about Fleur's tinkling laugh and her beaming smile. She even thought about her grumpy, rumpled appearance in the mornings, before anyone else was awake to see her. She wondered what it would be like to wake up beside her after a peaceful night's sleep.

She wondered what it would be like to make love to her.

She gasped, squeezing her eyes shut against the hot flush of guilt. Fleur was happily married and a good friend to her. It was utterly dreadful to be thinking of her in that manner!

Hermione rolled over onto her side, clutching her duvet around her. Besides, she mused, since when had she been attracted to women, anyway? She found most of the girls she knew entirely annoying and had no interest in them romantically. She'd fancied Victor and Ron at various points in the past and was confident that she would continue to fancy men.

Except, if she were very honest with herself, she'd had that tiny little _thing_ for Tonks. She'd admired her and thought that while she was quite clumsy, she was also brave, pleasant and loyal. But she hadn't fancied her, not really. And she'd certainly never been this flustered about Tonks.

Perhaps this was the same thing. She certainly admired Fleur and had grown very fond of her. She'd never really had a close female friend before apart from Ginny, who had very little time for things she deemed girly. Maybe that was it.

She sighed again and squeezed her eyes shut.

"You know, the easiest way to get rid of the Giddy Bagorums is to leave one bowel of honey and one of vinegar close to your bed? They're fickle little things but will keep themselves occupied deciding which they prefer," came the sleepy voice of Luna from the other bed.

"Luna," Hermione squeaked, "I'm sorry. I can't sleep."

"No wonder. You've got the best nest of Giddies I've ever seen. Do you want me to nip down and get what you need?"

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Giddy Bagorums? "No, thank you Luna. They're my Giddies, I'll get rid of them myself."

"Suit yourself," Luna said, amicably. "They don't like intense conversation either, so if you want to try that, I'll gladly lend an ear."

Hermione felt a bit bad about her impatience. Luna always meant well and often had valuable insight to share. She was unusually perceptive about certain matters too. After their conversation on the dunes, Hermione was certainly grateful to her and had resolved to actually listen to her friend, from now on. That said, she wasn't going to sleep with vinegar under her bed.

"Thank you Luna. I'll try to go to sleep now."

"All right. Sleep well, Hermione."

* * *

><p>The next day, Hermione stayed with the boys and Griphook all day, avoiding Fleur as best she could. She'd fallen into a fitful sleep only after lying awake for hours, betrayed by her own desires. She felt awful for this, for feeling these things for a close friend and a married woman.<p>

She'd barely been able to concentrate during their planning and had eaten dinner in record time, avoiding Fleur's concerned eyes. She felt dreadfully rude but she was terrified. In some ways, it seemed so sudden, as if she'd rounded a corner and been confronted with a part of herself that she'd never acknowledged before. In other ways, however, it seemed logical. As she'd come to know her hostess, she'd gone from relief that _someone_ wasn't actively trying to kill her to admiration of her skills to tentative friendship to… this. The fact that the progression appeared logical did little to comfort her, however, given how ridiculous the situation seemed.

Part of it was the fact that she'd never felt such a strong attraction to someone before, which was likely why she'd been reluctant to admit that she'd been feeling it for weeks. Her desire for comfort, for closeness and her easy acceptance of affection all took on a very different tint now, in hindsight. She felt like a creep; as if she'd violated the trust between herself and Fleur. She couldn't bear to be around her, to see the concern and care in her shining eyes or the line of worry marring her beautiful face.

After dinner she pulled on her jacket and rushed out, walking quickly to the beach. She knew that there were several little inlets that would afford her privacy. She found a dryish rock in one and sat on it, staring out over the grey sea.

She sighed. Why Fleur? Her life would have been much easier if it had been Ron or even _Luna_ she'd started fancying. She didn't need to ponder the answer for long, Fleur was a remarkable woman. She still found herself amazed at the 'woman' part of the whole thing, though. One would have thought, she mused, that such a thing would have reared its head long before now. She would be turning nineteen in less than six months time, for goodness' sake. Surely she should have figured this out long ago?

_Well, you were almost there,_ some impish part of her chided _but you brushed it off as a 'phase' and ignored it_.

She folded her arms. Was it true? Had she denied that part of herself, shoving it down beneath the worry and terror they faced? If so, that was at least a reasonable explanation, she decided. She wasn't in denial; she'd had other much more important things to worry about. Who had time for love in this world, given the war they had to fight?

She felt a frown crease her forehead at that. Hadn't Molly Weasley said exactly the opposite tended to happen? That people clung to what ever scrap of love and care they could in dark times?

Fleur hadn't made it easier, kissing her like that. Hermione felt sure that the intent behind it had been entirely friendly but was aware that Fleur knew how much it had affected her. It was excruciating, knowing how obvious and gauche she'd been; how unsophisticated. She supposed that it was just a French thing. People were much keener on kissing each other over there, as she'd noted a few years previous while on holidays. How dreadfully childish she must have seemed, going to pieces like that.

But, she thought, feeling her cheeks flare with heat, her reaction certainly hadn't been childish. Had Fleur realised that too? The thought was almost too much to bear.

She was full of questions and, uncharacteristically, she didn't want to know the answer to most of them. She had work to do; the world needed saving and Harry needed help. She didn't have _time_ to wait and figure out all this nonsense, she told herself sternly. If she survived the war, she could figure out her preferences, her orientation.

Preferences. Orientation. Sexuality. It all sounded so clinical and utterly detached from the reality of the gnawing in her guts and the racing of her heart. It sounded so polite, like a way of avoiding the visceral, vital nature of it. But she could live with that; she didn't feel ready to move any closer to the reality just yet.

The sea hissed, unconcerned with the little drama unfolding before it. Seaweed and other flotsam moved up the beach, inching up towards the high tide line. Given the noise, she didn't hear Fleur's approach until the tall witch was standing before her.

She was pale and forlorn in the grey evening. The flat, cloud-filtered light didn't catch the silver in her hair or the facets in her eyes. Despite that, Hermione found herself aching at the sight of her; the slump to her shoulders and the sorrow in her eyes. She was utterly beautiful but it was difficult to look at her; to juxtapose this unhappy creature with the laughing, shining woman she'd grown so close to.

"Was it necessary to run out so hurriedly?" Fleur asked, sadly. Hermione wasn't at all surprised that she'd found her but truly wished she hadn't followed her. She didn't have the time or the emotional reserves for it. She didn't have the courage for it. Fleur sat beside her on the rock and she felt guilty relief that she didn't have to look at her.

"I'm sorry for what I did, I truly am," Fleur said, miserably. "I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. I was caught up in the moment. I, my words failed me. My English failed me."

Hermione cracked a smile at that. "Your English is almost perfect, Fleur. Don't apologise, please. It's me. I, I'm the one who acted like a loon. I'm sorry. After all you've done for me, I pay you back by, by acting like some silly little school girl."

Fleur was quiet for a long moment and then took Hermione's hand in her own. Hermione felt her heart speed up and she almost drew back. Fleur held her gently, seeming to be gathering her thoughts.

"I understand. But I want you to know, I meant all I said. I care for you and it's a pleasure."

Hermione felt tears well in her eyes. She felt as if she were betraying Fleur's trust, feeling these things. She ached to reach out for her again, to hold her and to be held without all these other feelings, the _desire_ and drive to do more. To move closer. Tears dripped out of her eyes and fell onto Fleur's hand. She released Hermione's hand, moving from her rock to kneel before her.

"It's all right," she said, kneeling and wiping the tears from Hermione's cheeks with her thumbs. Her long fingers rested on the side of her face, brushing her ear lobes. Hermione bit back a sob, overwhelmed by the soft touch. She tried to pull back, but Fleur's fingers were firm.

"It's all right," she repeated, still soothing Hermione with her hands. "Please don't cry. I understand," she whispered, which certainly got Hermione's attention. Her eyes flew open, Fleur blurred by her tears.

"What?" she asked, barely audible. Clearly, she _had_ been as obvious as she'd worried.

"I understand," she repeated. "I would very much like to show you how much a pleasure it is for me, too." She was quiet, her enchanting eyes easily capturing Hermione's gaze. Wisps of hair were moved over her forehead, making her seem rather less unearthly than she usually did. The surf boomed as ever it did and the wind rustled the harsh dune grass. Hermione was captivated and anxious for Fleur to speak again, sick with excitement. "I would like to kiss you properly."

Hermione felt every drop of blood in her head head flow from it at that, leaving her gasping and dizzy. "Fleur," she breathed.

"It's true," she said, her eyes boring into her own. "If I could, I would kiss you until I passed out. I feel it too, Hermione."

Hermione was gob-smacked. She opened her mouth to speak, only managing to babble a bit. "But, I don't… I mean, how?" Fleur smiled at her, tears gathering in her own eyes.

"As I said," she said, "I feel it too. But we cannot. Do not ask me, please. My resolve is not so strong." Tears welled in Fleur's eyes as well, blue and dark with passion behind them. Hermione felt dizzy, light headed. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt. She thought back to kissing Victor (on the one occasion she'd done it) and realised it hadn't felt anything like this. She'd been scared she was about to do something wrong, though quite excited to be _finally_ actually trying it. She had been disappointed though. She hadn't thought it was anything to write home about. She suspected that kissing Fleur would not disappoint.

But they couldn't. Fleur was married. She had to think of the mission. She shook her head and Fleur tipped her head back, half sobbing and half laughing.

"Thank goodness! Ah, merde," she hissed. "Do you understand, Hermione?"

"That we want to," she couldn't bring herself to say it, "but we can't. We shouldn't."

"Yes," Fleur breathed. "And besides, we will maybe get over it, so to speak, as we become more familiar with one another. After all, familiarity breeds contempt, no? We'll look back and laugh over how silly we were." There was a great sadness to her, something that made Hermione think that Fleur didn't think that course of events was likely.

"I'm sorry," she said, quietly.

"No!" Fleur said, fiercely, "do not be. Attraction is not something you can help," she held Hermione's face more firmly. "If things were different…"

Something leapt within Hermione's chest and she closed her eyes against another flood of tears. "We're going soon, anyway. The boys didn't want to say, but we're leaving shortly. Four or five days more. So, you know…" she felt very inarticulate and foolish.

"No," Fleur moaned, shaking her head, "already?"

Oddly, seeing Fleur's grief allowed Hermione to pull herself together somewhat. She raised a hand, taking Fleur's in her own. "It's past time. We have to go, to finish what we started. We've got so much more to do."

Fleur was quiet for a moment. "I'll go with you, if you ask. Or rather, if you don't object."

Hermione laughed tremulously. "No, no. We'll be back, if all goes according to plan."

"I'll have the house ready for you." She was quiet for a while, before she lifted her eyes to her again. "What you wish to do, it is dangerous."

Hermione couldn't lie, not with herself laid bare. "Yes. If it goes wrong. But we're hopeful it won't."

Fleur sighed, dropping her hands from Hermione's face and laying them on her thighs instead, running her thumbs over them. "Then I will protect you," she said. "I will," she said firmly. "Give me a day or two."

* * *

><p>There were three quotes used in this chapter, from two very talented authors.<p>

_But the dawn is brief and the day full often belies its promise. _From J.R.R. Tolkien's masterpiece, _The Silmarillion_. This line comes from Chapter 12 entitled _Of Men_. It refers to the beginning of the wars fought between the Eldar and men on one side and Morgoth on the other.

_And everywhere, the ceremony of innocence is drowned. The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity. _This is taken from W.B. Yeat's enigmatic poem _Slouching towards Bethlehem_. It always reminded me of the chaos and tumult of a time of great conflict.

_I went down to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head_. This also belongs to Yeats. It's from _The Song of Wandering Aengus_ which is essentially a fairy tale about a young man who goes fishing and encounters a beautiful fairy woman who enchants him but leaves him in the wood. He spends the rest of his life trying to find her again.

There. Sorry about that. It's awfully pretentious, isn't it? Poetry in fanfiction. I offer my least sincere apologies!

'Til next time.


	6. Gather up our Hearts

Dear Reader,

Once again, many thanks to all who've taken the time to leave reviews! I have to admit that they've been very thought provoking and inspiring. It's very interesting to see what opinions and views people have on the story. I do sincerely believe they're making it a better tale so please, do add anything you have to say.

I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'd be very interested in hearing what people have to say about this one as it was a bit more difficult to get down than those previous. Also, please keep the rating in mind. There are mature themes discussed below.

Well, enough from me! Let's get on with it. This one is long too; make ready the cups of tea and the Boddington's.

* * *

><p>Fleur grunted and hurled a stone out beyond the surf, scowling after it. With the daylight long since faded, she was barely able to discern between the clouded night sky and inky sea. No stars shone overhead and no moon lit the waves. The night wind roared as the sea threw itself against the shore, shattering on the desolate coast. With nothing to see and only the sea to hear, there was no escape from the tumult within her mind and heart. She was caught in an unforgiving void where no distraction existed that could move her attention from herself.<p>

What kind of a fool was she? She lifted another stone and flung it as far as she could, eyes stinging in the evening wind. What had she been thinking? She lifted another, the heaviest yet, and squeezed it tightly. What was she doing? She felt her shoulder burn as she held the stone in an outstretched arm. She waited until her hand began to tremble before she threw the stone, watching the waves swallow it a short distance from the shore. How could she explain this to Bill? She kicked a rounded stone, sending it sailing into the greedy sea. What would her mother say? Or worse, her grandmother?

"FUCK!" she roared, her throat scorched by the forceful invective.

Frustrated and annoyed with herself, she sank onto her backside, the damp sand wetting her jeans instantly. She scrubbed her face with both hands and ran her fingers through her windswept hair. She was slightly out of breath, more from panic and anxiety than exertion. She felt a bit better after shouting, though.

It was bad enough, kissing Hermione, let alone the rest of it! She had seemed so lonesome sitting before the barrier and so surprised at receiving a little bit of kindness that Fleur's heart had gone out to her. She didn't deserve to feel so unloved, so isolated; no one did. Was Hermione so unaccustomed to affection and care that she felt undeserving of any scrap? Or was her fractured heart in a worse state than Fleur had suspected? She had only been trying to help, when she sat beside her. To remind Hermione that there were those who cared deeply for her.

Regardless of her noble intentions, she shouldn't have kissed her. She'd allowed herself to be swept up in the moment and had forgotten herself. That said, it hadn't been intimate, by her standards. The intention, in the half second of cognitive effort before she acted, had merely been to offer an expression of friendship.

_Indeed, you are a most friendly creature!_

She sighed. Perhaps her own attraction had been to blame for the impulsive action.

_Perhaps?_

She scowled at herself. Of course it had been to blame, she knew. Whatever her intentions, she'd crossed a line and in doing so had upset her friend, that much was patently clear. Obviously, some poorly buried part of her had found the opportunity to sneak a kiss too much to resist. Some very treacherous part of her mused that she would have gotten away with it, if not for British sensibility. Sensitivity. Prudishness.

Which was, she freely admitted, a dreadful way to think. She was not the kind of person to go around stealing kisses. But in that moment, her heart had wept for Hermione, resonated with her sadness and she'd longed to provide some assurance that she _was_ cared for. To mark the moment.

Well, she'd succeeded magnificently, she thought wryly. Hermione had almost leapt out of her skin at the contact, eyes wide and dark before her and hammering pulse lifting the skin of her pale throat. The moment had changed immediately, the air between them crackling with possibility. She'd known that if she'd pressed forward, Hermione could well have accepted her advances.

_Hah! How likely! The poor girl was mortified!_ she scolded herself. She couldn't deny that part of her had come alive in that moment, seeing Hermione so affected. Startling and profound, desire had descended on her, singing with the need for more. Her heart had pounded in her ears and her mouth had gone dry, her breath hot as it skimmed her lips. This was more than the brief moments where she'd been entranced by Hermione's beauty or her endearing mannerisms; this was consuming and reckless. Powerful. She'd turned her back to those feelings as best she could, leaving them engaged in awkward, strained conversation for a while. She'd apologised, lamely she thought, at the back door and left Hermione alone before leaving to check the wards.

She'd needed the distance, in honesty. She'd been shaken by how tenuous her grip on her libido was and riddled with guilt over the anxiety she'd caused poor Hermione. It had been plain to see; the other witch had been jittery and restless during the brief moments they'd spent together afterwards. Colour had bloomed on her cheeks whenever she'd glanced at her, betraying her embarrassment. It had left Fleur feeling wretched; hadn't Hermione suffered enough without this folly?

_If folly it is._

However, she'd been unable to leave Hermione alone and had sought her out after she'd fled the house. When she'd seen her gazing out over the tumultuous waves that evening, she'd been gripped with sympathy and remorse. She hadn't wanted to burden the other witch with her feelings or damage the newly formed, and frankly marvellous, bond between them. She could have held back, she knew, and enjoyed Hermione from a distance. She likely _should_ have held back.

But there was another side to the story. Parts of Hermione had been calling out to her for weeks, hungrily drawing comfort from her. Fleur had been happy to provide; she'd never begrudge such a simple demand but somewhere along the line, unnoticed and poorly perceived, Hermione had delved deeply indeed. Unbeknownst to her, Hermione had laid claim to parts of her, _changed_ parts of her. Her need had been great and Fleur had provided without a second's consideration but now she realised the full consequences. Her own heart had been drawn out, plain for her to see and all she could discern was Hermione's name scrawled all over it.

She hadn't known she was doing it, Fleur knew. The wounded animal sought comfort and shelter from its tormentors. The mind still had much of the wild in it and reacted predictably to a gentle hand. Fleur couldn't blame Hermione for how she'd acted, it had been a natural response. She never expected to respond to that call herself but she should have anticipated the possibility. Knowing the danger, she had disregarded it with cheerful abandon. As a result her heart had been enticed out; she'd evidently not been gripping it tightly enough.

She picked up a shell, turning the battered chalky shard over in her hands. It was damp and grainy with sand, shining and bleached in the dim light. It was chipped and broken around the edges, losing its substance to the great beach on which it had come to rest. Fading into the world where it had, so briefly, been clad with mother of pearl and shone in the sunlight. A brief burst of beauty and vitality before being set on time's great mill stone.

There was something of the same character in Hermione, now. Her eyes had been so sad when Fleur had found her sitting on the rock. Filled with guilt and anguish, Hermione had barely been able to look at her. Fleur had known then in a moment of utter clarity that she had to be honest, to make clear her own feelings and fret the repercussions later. It would have been utterly cruel otherwise. After all, if she was feeling such guilt, what must Hermione have been feeling?

There was some small relief to having this out in the open, however, but she knew that there was a possibility now that Hermione would withdraw from her, involute and brood over the situation. She couldn't risk that; Hermione had enough burdens to bear. She knew she had to press forward and be the bigger person. She was, after all, the one who had wrecked the damage. It was her responsibility to defuse the tension.

But the whole situation was dangerous for reasons apart from Hermione's potential introversion. What about Bill? Her heart sank, knowing precisely how he'd feel about what was happening. She risked hurting him greatly and absolutely had to find some way to avoid that. She had an inkling of how she could accomplish this and the thought sickened her.

She shook the dread and sorrow from her head. She had made important promises to Bill, as he had to her. They'd sworn oaths to one another and she was coming dangerously close to breaking several of these vows. A lie, she knew, was the only way to avoid utter ruin and her heart sank at the thought. The world was full of deceit and secrets; she was growing weary of having to nurture so many.

Beyond all this, she felt as if a clock was ticking behind them all, counting the seconds before Hermione and the boys left the safety of Shell Cottage and set out again to face the world. Whatever mission they had been assigned by Dumbledore, they were resolute in their secrecy. Of its nature, she still knew nothing despite frequent attempts to inveigle the truth from them. They had maintained an impressive silence.

Still, she wasn't stupid. Herself and Bill had discussed it and suspected that they planned to rob Gringott's or some other goblin hoard. Griphook was helping them for reasons neither of them could fathom but Bill suspected it had something to do with the handsome sword they'd brought with them. Were they searching for a weapon in the dark and dangerous depths of Gringott's? She knew of no such thing but then, she'd not been trusted with any secrets of importance while employed.

Whatever they sought, their efforts were madness. Yet they couldn't be discouraged and they couldn't be persuaded to remain in safety either. Whenever she'd raised the subject with Harry, he'd refused point blank. At the start, she'd presumed she would have plenty of time to wear them down but she'd been surprised with the resilience of these young people. There was iron in Harry, certainly.

Iron, but he needed steel, she thought. He was very skilled for someone of his age but that would not be enough to defeat wizards twice his age with lethal intentions. Many of his enemies had spent their adult lives honing their murderous talents and he was left very much at a disadvantage. Hermione and Ron too, while impressive duellists for their age, would not last long against the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange or any of the other senior Death Eaters. They'd spent a bit of time duelling on the beach and Hermione was constantly adding to her vast repertoire of spells but Fleur felt in her heart that it wouldn't be enough.

Besides, even if they did improve, how long could three stand against the forces that assailed them? Even if the entire Order of the Phoenix stood along side them, they'd still be annihilated. Their numbers were few and they were not driven by fear and lust for destruction, like their opponents. They stood and fought because they knew it was the right thing to do, not because their master was cracking a whip behind their heels.

Despair nipped at her, tasting the edges of her heart. She steeled herself. She'd sworn to protect Hermione and damn her, she was going to try her very best. She needed to abandon her self pity and get her act together. Standing, she brushed sand from her backside and nodded once.

Her priority now was to shield Hermione against the forces that hunted her. That done, she'd know that Harry would have the best possible chance of success. Slim as it was, their greatest chance of victory laid with him. Their hope was faint but she knew that Hermione had a key role to play.

And if, _if_, they survived all this, _then_ she could see about sorting out her feelings for Hermione.

* * *

><p>An odd feeling of relief had settled over her after things had come out into the open, Hermione mused several hours after her talk with Fleur. Herself, Harry, Ron and Dean were settled in the parlour in front of a roaring fire. Luna and Bill were in the kitchen, where loud swearing and occasional crashes were plainly audible. Apparently, the Gully Fluffs in the lobster pots have proven irresistible to a number of pixies. Hermione, having had her fill of Cornish pixies several years previous, had no desire to investigate. Fleur had yet to return to the cottage and after their talk had excused herself to check the wards. The night was dark and there was no sign of her but Bill didn't seem worried; she was still within the vicinity.<p>

Hermione was trying to read a guide to offensive hexes and failing miserably. Harry was curled up with one of Lily's diaries while Dean and Ron played chess in front of the fire. The little figures were particularly blood thirsty that night, insulting and cajoling the players in their piping voices.

She forced her attention back to the musty pages before her. She'd been looking at the same passage for almost ten minutes now and still hadn't been able to glean any new meaning from it. Her mind was racing in a dozen different directions; torn between elation and despair.

She was elated that Fleur felt the same way towards her, if she were honest with herself. It seemed to validate her own confused feelings. How could she be creepy if Fleur felt the same, after all? It was exciting, too, in a slightly manic way that left her wobbly and off-balance. It thrilled her to think that she wasn't alone in it either; Fleur's mind travelled along similar tracks.

How strange! It was a new experience, to find herself and someone else following the same lines of thought about such a personal matter. She had wondered what it would be like to kiss Fleur and she wanted the very same thing! The fact that they wouldn't, couldn't, act on this impulse was almost secondary and perhaps a bit of a relief. At least now they could just get on with what they needed to; they could concentrate on surviving and defeating the forces that assailed their world.

Hermione bit her lip, staring into the fire, giving up the pretence of reading altogether. Except she did quite want to kiss Fleur. Her mind spun with the thought of it, now that she'd opened the floodgate within her. Admitted, this part of her eclipsed almost all else, looming large within her psychic landscape. It was only with great effort that she could swing her attention back to their mission. Which, considering all that rested on said mission, was far from ideal.

The question also remained of whether this was an isolated occurrence. She knew Fleur was a particularly desirable woman, anyone with eyes could see that. Was she responding to Fleur or was some long-buried part of herself finally seeing the light of day? Reaching out to something in Fleur it recognised as similar.

But Fleur was right; they had reached the limits of this. It would have been foolish to ignore it, to deny such a truth, but it had far-reaching implications. Unnerved by self-examination, she turned her thoughts to Fleur, trying to imagine how she felt. She and Bill obviously adored one another; they were affectionate, fond, loving and very good to each other. But just because she was married to a man didn't mean she wasn't attracted to women, Hermione mused. It was entirely possible that Fleur was bisexual.

Maybe _she_ was too, for that matter. Or perhaps Fleur was merely an infatuation. After all, she'd fancied boys before. She closed her eyes, a headache threatening. _That_ subject was probably better left until after the end of the world, she decided.

Besides, what was she thinking, anyway? Hermione Jean Granger knew her own mind, more or less. Perhaps there were certain parts hitherto unexplored but she wasn't some silly bint in a bodice ripper. She was confused, yes, but she had to get on with it. She knew that she wasn't going to be overcome with desire or anything else so appallingly cliché; it would be far too embarrassing. Herself and Fleur just had to pull themselves together.

Which was, she mused, likely much more easily said than done. But then so was transfiguring a mouse into a teacup. It was all a matter of perspective.

Frowning, she turned back to her book. Her personal woes would just have to wait, there was work to be done.

* * *

><p>Fleur ran a shaky hand through her hair, letting out a frustrated breath. She was within sight of the cottage and still felt unsettled and nervy. She'd been wandering for hours and had not managed to will into being the resolve she knew was needed. It was one thing to decide on a plan of action but another entirely to actually implement it. One thing to say she'd ignore her feelings when they occupied the forefront of her mind.<p>

That said, she felt more cheerful than she had earlier. With a plan in mind, she felt less unsure and forlorn. She had a course to follow and she had resolved to do her best. Hopefully, she'd also be able to repair the damage she'd done to her friendship with Hermione, too.

Despite all her self-recrimination, she couldn't quite bring herself to regret those moments. She'd acted without thought, kissing Hermione, never giving a moment's contemplation to the consequences of such an action. It had not been an intimate kiss, by her standards but it had not taken long to remember that standards tended to vary internationally. The metre and kilogram were rare creatures and she felt dreadful for having flustered Hermione so.

But a bit thrilled, too, the more she thought about it. People often lusted after her but it was very unusual for her to find mutual attraction with anyone, especially someone as interesting as Hermione Granger. Why, she wondered, couldn't she have come to this realisation _before_ she'd gotten married?

_Well, because you were not the same people, then. Much has changed._

That much was true; much had changed. She was a different person than she had been a year before, never mind when she'd competed in the Triwizard Tournament. It was one of the great joys of life; people changed, grew and became new and fascinating individuals. But, given their current situation, this could possibly also be counted as one of the sorrows of life. Their imaginations had been offered a glimpse into another world that was inaccessible to them.

She had been content, fulfilled even, before all of this had started. She'd enjoyed her job and her training. She'd discerned truths in Lily's journals that had eluded previous investigators, some of which had aided Dumbledore himself. She'd taken pride in a thousand little domestic victories as she learned how to live as an adult in a home of her own. Herself and Bill had been happy.

But now, she found herself pushed beyond those limits it was exhilarating. She was executing spells she'd only known in theory in order to protect her home, accomplishing great and complicated magic. She was looking after a house filled with an odd mix of folk, all of whom (except Griphook, the little miser) appeared happier than when they'd arrived.

It would have been perfect if she hadn't gone and complicated it so needlessly with this new attraction, this new desire. The question also remained of how would she explain it to Bill, or indeed _if_ she would. Her heart sank at the prospect. She couldn't face that, the hurt and the pain that treading further would bring. As it stood, no one had acted wrongly. They'd even agreed to avoid that path altogether!

What more could she do, she mused. She'd opened the situation between herself and Hermione, as if opening a wound to release the pressure and let it heal. It was raw and aching, of course, but hopefully set on the path to resolution.

She sighed into the dark air as she neared the house. All the lights were off, though she could still smell smoke from the fire. Did a candle flicker behind shut curtains in some of the rooms? It was hard to tell and her vision blurred slightly. Gripped with a deep, aching weariness, she found herself craving the silence and simplicity of sleep.

* * *

><p>Hermione found herself alone in the smallest bedroom. Luna was tending to one of the Pixies, who'd been stabbed by one of his lobster pot mates. He wasn't seriously injured but was very annoyed and Luna had felt dreadfully guilty. Hermione had left her and Bill to it, sliding into bed earlier than was her wont.<p>

She succeeded in finishing the chapter in her book, adding two new spells to the list of those she wished to practice. They seemed quite useful and they were in a desperate enough state where any advantage needed to be employed. She'd eventually managed to distract herself for a while, thoughts leaving Fleur for at least half an hour.

But her mind had eventually settled back, falling down into the same rut and trundling over the same thoughts again. Weary and annoyed with herself, she'd excused herself to go to bed. Tired, but unable to sleep, she'd rooted in her beaded bag, searching for something to lull her to sleep.

She supposed no one would be surprised to learn that she had taken books with her. Many, many books. In fact, she could have filled the parlour shelves with the books she had. Along with spells books, history books, guide books and reference books taken from Hogwarts, she had several of her own, more for comfort than anything else.

Beedle was her most frequent companion but she felt no desire to squint at runes at this time of night. She brushed past several tomes of tales of heroism and daring, not in the mood for knights in shining armour. She passed over romance novels and biographies, collections of poems and even a battered copy of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ that had belonged to her father and been signed by Douglas Adams.

She was about to give up when she remembered, or at least ceased to suppress the memory of, the presence of an old book bound in black leather. Fleur had picked it up the other day and she'd, mercifully, been quick enough to relieve her of it before she'd opened it. It was quite an embarrassing thing to have and she'd been mortified around Fleur more than enough recently, as far as she was concerned.

She'd found Harry and Ron reading the book in the Gryffindor common room one day at the start of their second year, sniggering at passages and scoffing. She still suspected that Fred and George had somehow been involved, though they'd emphatically denied it.

Rolling her eyes, she'd confiscated it to keep them out of trouble. Who knew what a prefect would say if they caught sight of it? Not sure what to do to with it, it wasn't a library book and she wasn't going to throw it in the bin, she'd jammed it in her trunk and forgotten about it until her fifth year. A search for some notes prompted a thorough cleaning out of the blasted thing and she'd been surprised to see it nestling there, almost forgotten.

She'd laughed at her younger self, flustered and blushing over a collection of racy stories. She, then a wise and worldly sixteen year old, had been terribly amused by the memory.

Amused and then curious, if truth be told. Always a reader, she'd been fascinated by the stories contained in _The Viminal Enchantment._ She'd found smut, though at least it was well-written smut. The stories were ribald and quite humorous, the majority written by a young wizard who'd been employed in the Ministry of Magic during the closing days of the nineteenth century. He'd apparently found his job so boring that he spent much time in several disreputable muggle clubs in London. One of the last stories, written when he was an old and dying man, had given a brief history of his endeavours. He'd been curious, mischievous and quite perverse by the standards of the day. Hermione suspected that the same behaviour in this day and age would have garnered a raised eyebrow at best.

He'd collected and edited other people's stories too, caught up in what had been the beginnings of a shift in how the world perceived sex. Other wizards and witches had made shy contributions, several of them from the Uranian Society of London. She'd never figured out exactly who they were, but they'd played out fantasies, dreams and desires on the page. Common to them was the fact that they'd described acts between people of the same sex.

One story, submitted by an anonymous author, had told the story of the last night shared between Atthis and Sappho. Hermione hadn't read it until she'd gone through all the heterosexual pairings, slightly uncomfortable at the idea. It was bad enough reading about sex for titillation, she'd thought, but much worse to read about such an exotic and _different_ form of sex. There hadn't been, in her head, a potential practical application of the knowledge.

At least when she was reading some of the rest of the stories, she could convince herself that she was learning something. She, being a normal if quite busy young woman, expected that at some stage, sex would be something in which she'd be involved. She hadn't been as obsessed as Lavender or Parvarti or even Ginny, but she'd been aware that this would probably be relevant at some time in the future. She had known the basics of course, her parents were both health care providers, after all, and had been very sensible about the facts of live.

But there was always going to be a gap between what was deemed essential information and what was actually useful or interesting. She'd been armed with a rather dry and biological view of the whole business, which contrasted sharply with views commonly held by girls born into wizarding families. The number of ridiculous facts they had relayed, most of which were patently untrue and actually physically impossible, had usually sent Hermione swiftly fleeing. She wasn't prudish, she just hated wooly thinking and spreading silly rumours.

So she'd ignored the story about Atthis and Sappho until the winter of her sixth year. Restless one night, and alone for the Christmas holidays, she'd read it. Afterwards, she'd felt silly for being so reticent. It wasn't any more scandalous than the others; it had actually been quite sweet. She'd also felt quite pleased with herself for being so grown up about the whole thing, a far cry from Harry and Ron giggling and tittering so long before.

Her hand lingered on the spine and she heaved a sigh. She was awake, though tired. Maybe revisiting some old tales was the way forward.

She settled back, idly flipping to Atthis and Sappho. She read, comfortable to escape the confusion of the last few days. She felt as if she was testing herself, too. Would she feel the same way about this now as last year? She felt she'd changed in many ways and wondered if these would be reflected in what meaning the story had for her.

She didn't have long to wait. The words on the page called to mind the actions of earlier. The memory of Fleur's breath on her face made the first mention of a kiss conjure incredible, vital and tangible images within her mind. Her heart raced as they began to make love because now, given a short burst of emotion in the real world, the characters took on shape, colour and form beyond anything she'd imagined before. In the context of what she'd felt, the story was alive; given fertile ground to grow and spread.

On the page before her, Sappho leaned forward, sliding her hand down Atthis's belly, slowly coming to rest between her legs and-

She felt an ache between her own legs and slammed the book shut. No way. No _bloody_ way was she going to let herself get so worked up when she was sharing a room. Heart racing, she fumbled with the book, returning it to its place before extinguishing the candle. She drew the duvet up around her ears and turned to face the wall.

_Well, there you have it. Back in school, you were at least able to finish the damn thing without falling to pieces._

She closed her eyes, miserable and flustered.

Weren't you mean to get less sexually awkward the older you got?

* * *

><p>Fleur woke slowly, only reluctantly entering into the waking world. The curtains were drawn against the morning light and the pillow beside her cold to touch. She felt weary, as though she hadn't slept for days. Her eyes felt as if they had been used to transport a large portion of the beach, gritty and aching as they were. She slid out of bed and stumbled into the en suite, lifting a dressing gown as she went.<p>

She glared at her bloodshot eyes in the mirror.

_Truly lovely! Those bags, in particular._

Shortly afterwards, she made her way into the kitchen, arms wrapped around her waist. Bill was sitting at the table, reading _The Quibbler_ absently. Fleur felt a brief surge of panic at the sight and was quite tempted to flee. Her opportunity escaped her, though, when he smiled in greeting, lifting an expressive eye brow.

"Morning. You all right? Not like you to sleep on."

Fleur poured herself a cup of tea and sat beside him, resting her elbows on the table. "Tired, Bill. I didn't sleep well last night."

She sighed, rubbing her eyes, not feeling able to elaborate. Bill waited patiently for an explanation but she could be quite stubborn, when she wished to be. She remained quiet for many long moments and eventually he stood, rooting around for a few minutes before placing some buttered brown bread and two sliced oranges before her.

"Thank you," she said, feeling the corner of her mouth lift. "Oranges?"

"_That come all the way from China_," he sang, poorly. Fleur covered her mouth as she giggled, almost choking on the fresh, crumbly bread. Bill seemed pleased and stole a segment, sucking carefully on it.

Fleur ate her breakfast, wondering what on Earth she was going to do. What would she tell the man before her? She could tell by the gentle, soft curiosity in his eyes that he knew something was wrong. He was a sensitive soul and shrewd too, though she'd rarely been on the receiving end of that part of his personality. He also knew her better than anyone else in the world and she'd forgotten how difficult it was to deceive him, to hide her heart from him.

Hadn't that been what drew them together, so long ago? She wore her heart on her sleeve and he, who kept his closely guarded, had perceived some quality within her that had called to him. He'd once told her that after their first meeting, he'd gone home and sat gazing out the window, amazed and discombobulated after meeting someone with whom he could establish an instant rapport. He'd been scared of that, she knew. He still was, in truth. He had exposed his heart to very few people in his lifetime and she knew she'd been afforded a very special responsibility when he'd put his trust in her.

How could she lie to him? How could she endanger him? He seemed so fierce and so stoic but she knew the truth; his heart was as fragile as a new shoot. She chewed the bread and watched steam rise from her tea. Bill was humming softly. She smiled crookedly. She knew he missed listening to music. Their wireless was tuned to Potterwatch and the news these days, there was no time for music any more. Aside from that, his favourite music had never aired as it had been written and performed by a muggle.

The quiet was pressing against her. The house was unusually still around them and her own wretched guilt was deafening. She had to speak to him. He knew something was wrong, after all. He was no fool either and if he wanted to know, he'd find out. What if he thought to ask Hermione what the matter was? It was something she was not prepared to risk.

"Bill," she said, taking a deep breath. "I spoke to Hermione yesterday."

"Yeah," he said, mildly, "I spoke to Harry. He was looking for a tent."

Fleur was surprised but nodded. She felt slightly off-kilter, her train of thought so neatly derailed. "They will soon leave."

He sighed. "The loons. I don't even know if I have my old tent with me…"

Fleur shook her head, the silence oppressive now. It wouldn't do to talk across purposes so she barged ahead, tact forgotten. "I feel that I've done something very stupid, Bill."

Bill lifted his eyes, inscrutable and a bit wary, apparently taking her measure; likely imagining the myriad of foolish things she could have done. One side of his mouth twitched. "Are you pregnant?"

She lifted her eyebrows before frowning sternly. "Bill… You know very well I am not!"

"Indeed I do, Miss Cranky Bloaty-Drawers."

She frowned at him for a long moment and he turned, mirroring her posture and frown. After several long moments, they both burst out with peals of laughter. Bill threw back his head and guffawed, obviously finding himself hilarious. Fleur slumped back in her chair, covering her face with her hands, feeling herself blush.

"That is a very old one, Bill."

"Still good, though," he grinned, delighting in her embarrassment. She rolled her eyes. _Men_. At least Bill wasn't one who found menstruation horrifying. She didn't think it was a topic suitable for such crass humour, though.

"As I said; I'm not pregnant."

"But you still did something silly," he added, calming down slightly. "Almost as silly?"

She waited for a long moment before replying. "Almost."

Bill's frown deepened, some quick flash of fear in his eyes. "Fleur? What happened?"

She rubbed her face. She knew she had to tell him. She knew he needed to know; deserved to know. But it was so difficult. She saw the worry and the anxiety rising in his eyes and reached out, taking his hand. She knew there were few things that could scare Bill so thoroughly and felt wretched for frightening him.

"No, please. Do not worry. I did not-"

"Bill!" Ron called, slamming through the kitchen door. "Do you have any ink? We're out and Hermione sent me."

Fleur sat back, releasing Bill's hand. Bloody Ron! Bill was blinking at her, suddenly looking very young and wounded. Ron nodded at her, muttering a greeting. Bill stood, stiff as he moved out of the kitchen, casting one last glance back at Fleur.

She sat, waiting for him to return and watching the clouds race across the sky outside the window. How strange, the difference that a few days could make! She'd stood and watched the dawn with Hermione right _there_. She longed to return to that moment, for the easy and uncomplicated peace of it.

Bill quietly returned, shoulders slumped. His face was stern and paler than normal.

"Hermione?"

"Yes," she sighed, "and no. I made a promise to you Bill and I have not broken it. I will not."

"But," he said, voice shaky, "you came close."

She stood, facing him, unable to speak. She knew the truth was plain to see on her face and Bill frowned, stricken.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well. Shite."

* * *

><p>Later on, after dinner, she stood beside her husband and watched their guests duel each other on the beach. After their talk in the kitchen, Bill had gone on several excessively long errands. His eyes were hard when he returned, a wariness to them that she didn't often see. She'd spent her day studying Lily's diaries, leaving Dean and Luna to feed the household while she hid in the parlour.<p>

She'd felt dreadful after their overly dramatic breakfast and had thrown herself into study instead of actually talking to Bill. This also had the benefit of keeping her away from Hermione and the heart (and head) ache therein. That said, her research was truly urgent now, having a new focus and clearly defined goal. The importance of success was almost overwhelming and the threat of failure inconceivably awful. She knew that Hermione would be leaving on their perilous mission within days and she was no closer to protecting her than she had been when she first arrived on the damp beach, battered and bruised.

She had come such a very long way, Fleur knew. But had she travelled far enough? Had she really left the taint of Bellatrix behind or was it still lurking in her heart, poised to strike when the time was right? Fleur didn't know and she yearned for more time to fully exorcise her memory. But she could wish all she wanted but it would not give her even an extra hour with the other witch.

Forty yards away, Hermione raised a shield charm, deflecting a jinx from Dean. It was a skilful piece of magic elegantly executed. She retaliated with a short burst of offensive spells, moving quickly and with an impressive, considered economy. Harry and Ron were squared off against one another while Luna watched closely, sitting the current round out to act as a referee.

Bill sighed. "They're good, but they don't have the instinct for it."

"I know," she said, frowning at proceedings. "They would do well in any reputable duelling clubs but…"

"They'd not last long in the disreputable ones," he said, wryly. "I'll work with them tomorrow. Get their defences a bit more polished."

"That is a fine idea," she agreed. "I would, but…"

"Your research," he said, softly. They both faced the duellists, not looking at one another. Fleur shifted uncomfortably on her feet. They'd never really finished their conversation and she knew Bill was dying with morbid, nervous curiosity.

"What happened, you know? With Hermione."

She sighed. She didn't think he needed to hear the full ins and outs of the conversation on the shore and she had no desire to share. "We were talking on the beach and I perhaps overstepped some bounds. It is hard not to, with her. She has a way of drawing one out."

"She does," he agreed. "She's so bright." His voice was sorrowful and a touch wistful. "To be young again, eh? Were you tempted?"

She didn't answer, dipping her head instead. "It doesn't matter. I didn't."

He was quiet for a long time and Fleur waited, anxious and fretful. She'd expected anger and shouting, not sorrow.

"I wish, sometimes…" he trailed off, his voice catching.

Her heart ached at the sadness in his voice. She felt tiny beside him, inadequate to cope with the constant hurts inflicted by the world, which he often felt much more keenly than she did. She had nothing to give but her love and she often wondered if it was enough for him. She wished she were more, too. She wished she were stronger or more clever. She wished she could give to him what he'd given to her.

She stepped up to him and wrapped her arms around his strong trunk. He was so solid and warm; vigourous and steadfast. He sighed and held her gently, resting his head over her own. She longed to comfort him and nudged him sideways, away from the beach.

"Come along. It's cold out here."

He nodded and they walked back towards the house. "Sing us a song, will you?"

She nodded and drew a breath. "_Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river…_"

* * *

><p>The next morning, Fleur woke early as was her wont. Bill was curled on his side, soundly sleeping. His face was soft and peaceful in sleep and she felt a surge of fondness for him. He looked younger, carefree. He'd been so handsome, when she'd first met him, shining with vim and vigour. He still shone like few she knew, a good and kind soul who'd been dealt an unfair hand. His suffering had been profound though few knew the full extent. He wrestled with his nature in a way very few did and she often felt he didn't realise how much he was valued, by her and many others beside.<p>

She stepped down the stairs quietly, enjoying her time alone before breakfast. It was difficult to get time to ones self in the little house though she knew that soon, she'd have more time than she'd know what to do with. The thought saddened her and she banished it.

The sky was clear, rosy as the rising sun lit banks of high, fluffy cloud from beneath. The cooker was warm and she could detect a hint of Hermione's scent hanging in the still air. She set the heavy kettle on the stove and retrieved the teapot. Did she dare go into the parlour where Hermione undoubtedly sat, curled with a book or reading over her notes? Closing her eyes, the vision came effortlessly. She imagined Hermione's unruly hair tugged back into a crude bun, perhaps with a quill jammed into its depths. She could see her, nestled into a borrowed dressing gown in the chill of the little room, a frown of concentration between her eyebrows.

She sighed, shaking her head, sadness and regret gripping her. How she longed to reach out to her, to cheerfully bring her a fresh mug of tea and some toast. To drop a casual kiss against her lips as she went.

"Merde!" she hissed, eyes popping open. She busied herself with making a pot of tea. So consumed was she, the entry of Harry went unnoticed. She almost dropped the pot on her foot when she turned around, spying him.

She started and the tea sloshed around in the pot. Harry, rumpled and sleepy, blinked owlishly behind his glasses, apparently not knowing what to make of her nerves so early in the morning.

"Ah! Good morning, Harry. Tea?"

Soon, they were eating bacon sandwiches and drinking hot tea. Harry was never unpleasant in the mornings, but he took a while to muster his faculties and hold a decent conversation so they sat in companionable silence. Dean wandered in and helped himself to a couple of slices of bacon as well and conversation slowly began. Luna, Ron and Bill drifted in and the little room soon seemed rather crowded. But it was a largely happy crowd, chatting with good humour despite the early hour. Luna made herself a fried egg sandwich, much to Ron's disgust.

"It's a runny egg! It has no place in a sandwich."

"It's a good way to sop up the yolk," Dean countered. "But it's better if it's a toasted fried egg sanger."

"Urgh, not you too, mate!" Ron said, affecting a shudder.

"Quiet, you," Bill broke in, grinning at his little brother. "I remember back when you ate nothing but boiled eggs for about two years! Boiled eggs, soldiers, spuds, apples and the occasional bit of sausage."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "I cannot see your mum putting up with that!"

"Nah, drove her mad," Bill said, grinning. "But it only lasted for a bit. Then he took to eating anything that wasn't nailed down. Mum used to say he had a delicate tummy," he teased, eyes twinkling. "The only one of us who did!"

"I've seen him at hall," Dean said, sagely, "he's outgrown his dicky tummy, let me tell you."

Luna nodded vigourously, yolk on her cheeks. Ron, blushing furiously, grabbed a spare sandwich and stomped out of the kitchen, bringing it to Hermione.

Fleur raised an eyebrow at Bill, wondering if she should scold him for his cheek. Given that it had been harmless and had cheered him up (coupled with her crabbid dislike of Ron) she decided to let it slide. Hermione and Ron trooped into the kitchen, the witch heading for the kettle with overly eager intent.

Fleur watched her for a short moment, feeling a rueful smile stretch her face. She turned to Bill, but he was speaking to Harry, ignoring both herself and Hermione. She couldn't tell if he was doing so intentionally or if he was genuinely interesting in what Harry had to say.

_This is a disaster_. She took her tea and excused herself, heading up for a quick shower.

Dressed and refreshed, she made her way to the parlour. Bill and Dean were dealing with the dishes and she could hear water running in the downstairs bathroom, suggesting that someone else was seeing to their ablutions. There was something terribly intimate about their mornings, she mused. They all muddled together as they tried to prepare for their days, tripping over one another and stealing the nice shampoo or soft towels. She left them to it, knowing she had to return to her study.

She entered the parlour, inhaling deeply. Hermione's scent lingered in her wake, soft and enticing. Fleur sighed, lifting the blanket she'd been curled beneath and folding it, replacing it over the back of the armchair in which she'd found it. She leaned her forearms on the seat back, staring into the empty, cold grate.

Gripped with a little spasm of loneliness, she felt herself slump, sad and quite miserable. Her thoughts were sluggish, moving without aim or purpose through her mind. She let her mind wander, little fragments of memory and hope bumping one another in the viscous substance of her consciousness. She thought back to the previous evening, singing to Bill as they trooped home.

"_And you want to travel with her,_" she sang idly to herself in the little parlour, "_and you want to travel blind. And you know that she will trust you, for you've touched her perfect body with your mind_."

She sighed. Time to get back to work.

* * *

><p>Hermione was restless, tapping her quill against her lip as Harry and Griphook rehashed the final intricacies of the plan. Harry's voice was firm and resolute, eliciting both pride and dread within her. She was proud of her friend; of the courage with which he faced the forces that assailed them. Knowing where this courage would lead them terrified her, though. It scared her to think of what lay before them, especially now that their time of respite was drawing to a close; their sanctuary outgrown.<p>

It was time to continue their quest and finish what they'd started. She hated the idea of becoming Bellatrix, of seeing that cruel and mocking face in the mirror. There was something so perverse about Lestrange, Hermione mused. Perhaps it was the visceral, sensual joy she took in the suffering of others and in inflicting that pain. She had no idea how to act like her and what was more, had no desire to learn. She knew that much depended on her playing the part though, as polyjuice could only hide so much. There was no point in asking Ron or Harry to drink the potion as they'd still stomp around the place like blokes.

It had been one of the strange things about the night they'd left Little Whinging. Fred and George were more energetic than Harry and had fidgeted quite a bit. Ron's round shouldered hunch had been unmistakable, too. The oddest, however, had been seeing Fleur's effortless grace contained in Harry's skinny frame. If it hadn't been such a dangerous situation, it would have been comical. She remembered thinking it was a good thing that no one was going to see the seven Potters walking because anyone with an ounce of wit would have been able to quickly eliminate several.

_Did I see her, notice her, even back then?_ she wondered. She honestly had no clue and it wasn't something she felt the need to dwell upon. She probably had; it was very difficult to not notice Fleur.

"Right," Ron said, interrupting her thoughts. "Bill said he'd give us a few pointers, will we go?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "we're done, I hope."

"You hope," Griphook sneered, "we're running out of time, Harry Potter. Three days."

"We'll be ready," he said with finality before standing. He nodded his thanks to Griphook and exited. She gathered the notes and sent them into their hiding place within the bag. Griphook didn't acknowledge her words of good bye and she suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. He certainly hadn't endeared himself to her, or to anyone else for that matter. She supposed that the opinion of several young wizards mattered little to a goblin but his rudeness was still irksome.

As she made her way to the kitchen, she cast a glance at the parlour door. It was firmly shut and she could see the faint silver shimmer of a silencing charm hanging over the battered wooden panels. A bittersweet smile twisted her lips. Fleur was clearly taking her promise very seriously. Ron stepped down into the corridor behind her and she continued on, wistful.

_It'd be nice to talk to her, she mused, but probably not a good idea._

She pulled her jacket on and stepped outside. They had so much to do that it was almost overwhelming but she knew that sitting worrying about it would accomplish little.

She nodded to herself. _Get on with it_.

* * *

><p>Fleur rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand, a nasty little headache building. She was lost; cast adrift in the sea of information left behind by Lily. She'd made numerous references to guardianship and to spells that provided protection from afar. She'd begun investigating these while pregnant with Harry, worried about the fragile little life within her.<p>

_Well, Wee Potter is probably going to be a shin kicking champion. Or a footballer. Or a mule. Molly tells me it's going to get worse, when they turn. Who the hell thought that having a big lump of a foetus spend several months kicking its mother's guts was a good idea, anyway? Probably the same person who thought that the vagina was a sensible escape route for said foetus. Undoubtedly a man._

_Well, it won't kill me. Molly's done it a few times and she's still in one piece. She's fit to pop, though. I hope for her sake it's a girl. I know she loves her boys but she does want a little girl so very much. It's probably about time, too. Five boys? She's a braver woman than I._

_How I ramble! Wee Potter is proving very distracting. I suppose as I get closer to my date, I begin to wonder about the whole thing. It's a momentous occasion, isn't it? The moment where a new life comes into being? The moment when it takes its first breath and claims its life. Right now, Wee Potter is utterly dependent on me and though I think about the baby like it's a different person, is it really? It's getting there, no doubt (especially in the vicinity of my bladder) but it's not quite there._

_So the moment when he or she draws her first breath and begins her or his own life is something that I'm awfully excited about and also utterly terrified of! It's such an important moment. What if something goes wrong? What if that moment, that first gasp of air, just doesn't work?_

_It's an event like no other. I almost wish I could do something with it. I'll be in no state, sadly, and I can't think of anyone who could. James is very kind and patient about my ideas but he just isn't quite there, as far as understanding goes. I'll get him there yet, though. Imagine if I could, though. If I could dedicate that moment to my child's future. I suppose every mother does, witch or muggle, and that's the essence of birth._

_Will there be other moments? Those things that can happen once are so powerful, so very profound. Would it be possible to use them to look after my child? Because given the world we're living in, Wee Potter needs all the help they can get! Being the child of two of you-know-who's least favourite troublemakers isn't going to make things easy!_

_When I think of him, of his cruelty and his malicious joy at tearing the world apart, I wonder what his mother must have thought of him. Did she know? Did she look at him and see the evil within him? Did that evil exist even then? I'd like to think it didn't but with every report that comes in, with every funeral I attend, it gets harder to believe._

_He doesn't understand the power of life, though. He only relishes its end. I can't deny there's a power in a person's final breath but it's a desperate power and it's not right to turn it to your own use. That last moment, when it all ends, that's special in its own way but its value is in its finality. The sum of all we are poised for one last moment before it's gone. Before the end. I can't imagine anything sadder. It would be a desperate person who'd use it. Or an evil one._

_I shouldn't dwell on this. Death is beyond me, beyond all those who make an effort to understand the world. Death will come for us all and it does us no good to questions its mysteries too closely. What would we do if Death began to answer back, after all?_

_I should turn my attention to other moments, never mind all this morbid brooding. Other sacrifices that could keep Wee Potter safe. Joyful things, pleasant things._

_And I'm sure we'll have many to choose from! Wee Potter's kicking again, clearly can't wait to get out. Be patient, you've got a lifetime for all that. We've got a lifetime for those moments._

Fleur didn't have the heart to turn the page. She knew that this was the final entry before Lily was made aware of the prophecy. She'd found out the sex of her child and heard his doom pronounced in one horrible moment. She felt tears well in her eyes. How unfair! How cruel life was, death was, to have given her so little time with her son. To have given her son so little time with her.

She rubbed her forehead. Lily had gone on to dedicate her death to Harry. She'd sacrificed her life to her son and had bestowed incredible protection on him. She'd done something no one else had ever achieved and she'd accomplished it largely on the spur of the moment. She'd not anticipated her death; she'd thought herself and her family protected. Because she'd never planned it, she'd left no record of what she'd actually _done_. Fleur had no idea what the mechanics of the spell had been and she supposed this was a good thing.

As fond of Hermione as she was, she was most emphatically not planning on sacrificing her own life for her. Why would she? Lily had acted in that way because she'd had no choice; she'd been cornered with no escape. Fleur had every intention of having many ways out of any dangerous situation she encountered. Besides, she wasn't even sure that such a tactic would work. Lily and Harry had shared a very intimate bond while that between her and Hermione was new and largely unknown. Unsure too, at the moment.

She didn't know what else to do, though. She had no gifts to give Hermione; nothing worthwhile to sacrifice. Or rather, nothing that she was sensibly able to part with. She could have broken her wand but she suspected that her grandmother would not be forthcoming with another hair. Besides, it would be suicidal to be without a wand in this day and age.

What else had she to give? She didn't have much money or many possessions. She didn't have magical artefacts or enchanted knickknacks of value. She had her voice, but if she was unable to speak, she would be unable to cast all but the simplest spells and rendered defenceless. She had her mind, but she needed that too. She had her beauty, she supposed, but she didn't think that would count for much in the scheme of things. Beauty was a transient beast and fickle too. It was too flimsy a base for something so important, she thought.

She stood, replacing Lily's journal on the shelf. It was long past midnight and the house was quiet.

_I'd give my heart,_ she mused, _but what good is that? I could give every ounce of affection and love I have to her. Sacrifice it for her. But it renews. Love does not exist in single moments. It may leave but it fills the voids in its wake._

Morose, she placed the guard before the fire and extinguished the lamps. She was tired and annoyed with herself as she ascended the stairs. Listless, she changed and slid into bed beside Bill. Her heart sank, knowing that there was still much to be said between them. But he wasn't ready to listen, yet, and she had to respect that. He was scared of what she had to say, too, and she found herself disinclined to rush into the conversation.

As she settled into her pillows, another snatch of lyrics came to her tired mind, soft as she drifted off to sleep.

_And just when you mean to tell her,  
>That you have no love to give her,<br>Then she gets you on her wavelength  
>And she lets the river answer,<br>That you've always been her lover._

* * *

><p>Hermione was curled into her pillow, her back to Luna. She yawned, weary after Bill's lessons and their planning session. She hadn't spoken to Fleur all day, or the previous day for that matter. She supposed it was for the best but she found herself missing her friend keenly. She appreciated that Fleur was busy, working for her benefit no less, but she wished they could have spent a bit of time together. She wished they could have taken the time to mend the fractures in their friendship before they propagated and shattered it.<p>

_It's true, isn't it? You really do bugger things up when you bring feelings along._

She bit back a sigh and closed her eyes. It would have been nice, though, in these last few days of peace to have spent some time with Fleur. She was well-aware that they couldn't act on what they felt and as the hours in the run up to their depature passed, she found herself regretting this deeply. She was shocked at herself, for that. She had always expected thought herself to be a more morally upright person than that; that she wouldn't pursue someone in a relationship. It disturbed her greatly to have to face that part of herpersonality. Her lack of integrity and respect.

But that said, lying in the deep, warm darkness before sleep she couldn't help but imagine what life would have been like if Fleur had been single when she'd arrived at Shell Cottage. Would she be lying in bed beside Fleur now, warm and content with her? What would it be like to simply reach out to her and press a kiss to her lips? What would it be like to stay up late in front of the fire, curled together beneath a blanket?

Her heart was sore with the thought. She felt as if she was scratching at a scab, lifting the edges and preventing it from healing. New blood seeped constantly, bringing regret and guilt. Poor Bill, she thought. He'd been so kind to her and she felt as if she had tossed that back in his face.

There was little to do now, though. She and Fleur had pulled back from one another and chosen not to act on their impulses. Surely that was what really mattered? Surely it meant more that they made they right choice?

Answers weren't forthcoming in the gloom. She shifted in her narrow bed and in the moments between sleep and waking, where dreams seemed real and achieved substance, she felt a ghostly warmth curl around her. Soft lips touched her ear and neck before settling around her, comforting and palpable.

Sighing, her limbs loosening and relaxing into the lumpy mattress, she happily gave herself over to the dream.

* * *

><p>Fleur woke panting, sweat lying wet down her back and pooled beneath her breasts. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand, trembling against the memory of an intense dream. She turned, panicked, to see if Bill still slept. He appeared to, or was too polite to comment on her sudden awakening<p>

She ached between her legs and lifted a trembling hand to her face. She slid out of bed and stumbled for the en suite, locking herself in and gazing in the mirror.

_Control yourself!_ she thought, glaring at her reflection. _You're not a teenager anymore, some soppy little ingenue!_ She closed the lid of the toilet and sat down, noticing the wetness between her legs more keenly. She rubbed her face and sighed. Admitting her attraction to Hermione had opened a flood gate within her, it seemed.

She drew in deep breaths in an effort to calm her wildly pounding heart. As she did, her mind turned to the dream she'd woken from. The memory of Hermione was intoxicating. She'd spread herself before her, wild and welcoming and incredibly sensual. Fleur had been drunk with her scent, with her taste and the vital heat rolling from her bare skin. It left her jerky and fumbling now, her limbs refusing to co-ordinate properly.

It was nothing, though, compared to the memory or moments she'd actually spent with the other witch. Memories of intimate moments from the last few weeks danced through her mind; that clever and wise face gazing up at her with a thousand expressions. Her laugh, the few times she heard it. Her smile, a more and more frequent visitor.

Fleur stood again, splashing water on her face. She glared at her reflection, noting the wild eyed look of her. I want her.

She wanted her more than she'd ever wanted anything before. She longed for her, ached for her! Her mind was plagued with thoughts of her as she stood in the cramped little room. The fact that she knew Hermione felt the same pull made it much harder to move past it; to ignore their connection.

Her mind was reckless and defiant. Why should they ignore it? It was, after all, the end of the world. The chance of victory was slim. If they survived, they'd live as vassals of the Dark Lord, cowering in fear and unable to freely live their lives. Hermione would not live at all, given her status as Harry Potter's best friend. There'd be no freedom to love or enjoy the world; to find happiness where one would. Why not take this now, while they still could and damn the consequences?

_What if_, wondered some deep and secret part of her, _it only happened once?_

Fleur felt as if cold water had been poured down her spine.

"Of course."

She grabbed a dressing gown from the back of the bathroom door and hurried to the parlour.

_It will be a selfish act, in truth. There will be hell to pay for it but if it will protect her then I will gladly pay the price, whatever it is._

* * *

><p>Fleur and Hermione walked the perimeter of the wards in fitful sunshine, great swathes of warm light rippling over the dunes. The ever-changing light caught the grey grass, adding silver accents as it swept through. The wind was brisk but lacked the chill it often held. The air was thick with the promise of rain despite the sun and Fleur carried a closed umbrella in one hand, obviously mistrustful of the weather.<p>

They pair had spent the day in desperate efforts to finalise their different plans and hadn't seen each other for more than a couple of moments at a time. Fleur had been awake and ensconced in the parlour before any of them had woken and hadn't emerged except to refill her teacup. Hermione had been quite surprised then, when Fleur had invited her for a walk after dinner.

Part of her had dreaded being alone with the other witch while other parts sang at the prospect. Something about Fleur's grim and serious mien had suggested that the conversation was important so she'd agreed. They'd walked in silence, letting the wind whistling through the marram grass provide a doleful score for their discussion.

"The day after tomorrow," Hermione said, sighing nervously and sick of the silence. Fleur turned to her and nodded. She took Hermione's hand and held it gently. They came to a stop and faced each other, Hermione sure that her grief was mirrored in the defeated slump of Fleur's shoulders. She stood quietly for a long moment, rubbing Hermione's knuckles with her thumb, evidently fascinated. She then took a breath, drawing herself up and straightening her shoulders. She faced Hermione fully, her eyes serious beneath a frown.

"I have been thinking," Fleur said, "and reading. I have studied Lily's diaries and have realised that it is possible to protect you from afar; to confer upon you a kind of blessing. It won't stop the killing curse but it will afford you protection from those who wish to harm you."

"Thank you," Hermione said, feeling a grateful smile stretch her face. She noted Fleur's reticence and faltered, a frown forming. "What does it involve?"

Fleur blushed and studied the back of Hermione's hand. "It involves dedicating a special moment to your safety," she said after a while. "Something that can only happen once." She lifted her eyes to meet Hermione's. The brunette felt a bolt of heat race under her skin, burning every inch of her and knocking the breath from her lungs.

"What, what kind of a moment?" she asked, timidly, already knowing the answer.

"Making love," Fleur breathed, voice oddly unsteady. Hermione pulled her hand away and moved off, needing a moment to think. She wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. She'd known before Fleur had spoken what she would say but that didn't lessen the shock. She paced on the dune, shaking her head, left in complete disbelief. Her married, _female_ friend was suggesting they sleep together? It was too much for her and she felt her face fill with blood, red and flaming with embarrassment.

"You can't be serious. What about Bill?"

"I've already told Bill, this afternoon," she said, "and he was shocked," she continued, sounding a bit upset. "And angry with me. He thinks I am taking advantage of you, for one thing."

Hermione didn't really want to know what the other things were.

Fleur shook her upset from her and turned her startling eyes to her, visibly moving past her doubts. "But he knows that arguing with me is pointless. He knows that the world is on the brink of destruction and that so much depends on Harry. He will be the one to finish it, to end it all, everyone knows this. But he will fail without _you_."

Hermione shivered, wrapping her ams around her. She'd known for a long time that Harry couldn't do it alone and had long since sworn that she'd do anything she could to aid him. She had long since resigned herself to the fact that she'd probably die during this quest. That even if they succeeded, they themselves wouldn't live to see peace restored.

And it was bloody unfair! She didn't _want_ to die. She wanted to finish school, go to university, find her parents again… She didn't want to die without having been properly kissed. She didn't want to die without having ever made love. If she were very honest with herself, she didn't want to die without kissing and making love to Fleur.

But it was wrong. She'd be sleeping with a married woman, helping someone break their marriage vows. Break a promise she'd made standing up in front of all her friends and family.

"You were declared bonded for life, Fleur. You swore to love and care for Bill, to be his comfort and support," she said, indignation rising. Who did Fleur think she was, to suggest such a thing? To ask her to involve herself in it?

Fleur moved silently for the next thing she knew, her hands were on Hermione's shoulders. "I did. I will not stop caring for Bill if I do this, believe me. I will always love him. But I'm so scared for you, Hermione. You face horrible dangers and you won't let anyone help you!" her voice rose and she sounded frustrated. "You must realise how important you are, how necessary you are? How _precious_? If I can't go with you, then take with you what protection you can. Please."

Gently, Fleur turned Hermione around, lifting her hands to her face. She dropped her voice, whispering now. "Let me help you. Let me give you this. Let me give you some moments of happiness in these dark times. Even if it's only a single night, let me make you happy." She paused, smiling sadly. "But I will not beg or cajole or bewitch you. It is your choice."

There was a long, electrifying moment as they stared at one another. Hermione could almost see them then, twined together with faces close. She could feel the heat from their embrace and her head swam, overcome with the promise of the moment. How sweet, how incredible, would it be to accept that was offered? To seek some pleasure before she perished? She drew a breath, still not sure of what she wanted. The thought struck her that this was a radical shift in approach from their previous conversation and she tipped her head to one side.

"Bit different from the other day," she joked, the words catching in her throat.

Fleur smiled sadly. "Well, then I wanted to kiss you for purely selfish reasons. But this _is_ different. It is to protect you. And it will only happen once."

Hermione was quiet for a long time. Despite her indignation, she longed to say yes, to take what was being freely offered because she ached for it. She had never felt so close to a person and she'd really only known Fleur for a couple of weeks. This wasn't the snobbish woman who'd complained about the Burrow, this was someone who'd soothed her wounds and helped them all despite knowing that to do so carried an effective death sentence.

She found she wanted to get to know her better, as well. She wanted to learn more about Fleur, to spend more time with her. To bask in the affection and fondness she gave so readily, so quickly. She realised with a start that she didn't want to die because she wanted to spend more time with Fleur. It was a strange thing for one such as herself, usually so self-reliant, to think and it shocked her slightly.

She looked up at the other woman, her eyes like shattered gemstones in the afternoon sunlight. She was gazing down with soft, bittersweet longing. Her lips were parted and she often looked at Hermione's lips, dragging her attention away with some effort. Hermione felt her resolve crumble and almost reached up to weave her fingers into Fleur's hair and pull her down…

Hermione stepped back, shaking her head. "I can't. I, I just can't."

Fleur slumped, her head falling in sorrow. "I understand. But, if you change your mind, come and find me tonight or tomorrow. I will wait for you."

Hermione nodded, taking a deep breath and walking away from the forlorn, beautiful woman. The grass on the dunes danced in the strong wind, whispering lonely hymns to the leaden sky. Hermione felt tears rolling over her cheeks, her heart breaking the more distance she put between herself and Fleur.

But she was doing the right thing. She felt silly for forgetting just how hard that could be.

* * *

><p>Dear Reader,<p>

This chapter featured a number of quotes from the song _Suzanne _by Leonard Cohen. It's a beautiful song and I would highly advise tracking it down. It's quite a sad and wistful song but a firm favourite of mine. It's also a song that anyone can sing, given that the immensely talented Mr Cohen does not write songs that are difficult to sing. It's useful for people like Bill and myself.

'Till next time


	7. The Virtue in Deceit

Dear Reader,

This one's shorter than the last two, but they were getting absurdly long! Possibly a half a cup of tea or half a pint chapter. Enjoy! As always, feedback and your opinions are highly valued.

* * *

><p>That evening found Hermione hidden in her room, making a poor attempt at translating Beedle. She was slumped miserably against the wall, feeling as though every single one of her ribs had been broken again, the better to pull her heart from her chest. She curled against her pillow and tried to forget the agony on Fleur's face, the longing and desire written plainly there. She felt as if she'd stumbled into a snare, one where her heart and mind had been caught by Fleur's kindness and beauty. She could think of nothing but Fleur and it was driving her to distraction. She couldn't close her eyes but she'd be there. She couldn't let her thoughts drift for they inevitably swept up on her shores. As much as she tried to move her attention, some part of her was held firmly.<p>

_It might be time to start gnawing limbs off._

It was as though she had been bewitched, she mused. Could she be reacting to Fleur's veela blood? She trusted that Fleur hadn't set out with seduction in mind, but what if she'd unconsciously done something? Hermione mulled that thought in her head for a while, unsure. She didn't _feel_ bewitched. She felt out of control, which was not a common occurrence regarding her feelings, and she found that she detested the sensation. But she didn't think she could blame it on some form of veela magic. After all, she'd seen the effects of veela bewitchment; people became very passive and quiet, biddable even. She didn't feel anything like that, if she were honest with herself.

She thought of Ron then, remembering his ridiculous behaviour at the World Cup and in Hogwarts. The thought was jagged and painful, almost causing her to withdraw from it. What a fickle creature she was! She'd been pining after Ron for the best part of a year, if not two, and now this? But it wasn't simple. Her feelings for Ron had shattered when he left the tent that night, leaving her feeling small and foolish for ever having trusted him with something as important as her love. Even though they'd been doing better in the weeks before being captured, something fundamental had shifted. She _didn't_ feel the same about him as she had.

She knew it was unkind, perhaps even cruel, but she couldn't bring herself to fully trust him again. She'd forgiven his abandonment, slowly and almost grudgingly, but she'd never forget. If he was willing to walk away from something so important as their mission, how would he act in a relationship? Would he bolt at the first sign of trouble? After the first proper row?

Besides, if she were very honest with herself, the thought of him had never thrilled her like the thought of Fleur did. Her feelings towards him had indeed changed but she knew that she'd never felt like _this_ about him. What she felt for each of them seemed as different as night and day. Parts of herself that she'd only grudgingly accepted as her own now sang out, alive and vital around Fleur.

She rolled onto her belly and pressed her face into the pillow. She _really_ couldn't go down those lines of thought.

Instead she imagined what Ron would do if he found out about how she felt for Fleur. Would he leave them again? Would he end their friendship? Would she break his heart the way hers had? She knew he cared for her, perhaps even loved her. She didn't know what to do about it, though, and was very reluctant to make an attempt to resolve the situation. Thankfully, Ron seemed to feel the same and had left her more or less to her own devices since they'd arrived at the cottage. She had a notion that their relationship was going to get worse between them before it got better and didn't have the energy to open that can of worms.

Miserable, she barely noticed the door open to admit Luna. The blonde was humming to herself, happy in her own company as ever she was. She smiled brightly at Hermione, though it quickly faded when she saw the expression on her face.

"Are you all right?" she asked, frowning. It was strange to see Luna frown; her eyebrows were almost white and very fine. Fleur's were quite pale too, Hermione realised, but better defined and thicker. She groaned and buried her head in her pillow. She was a woman obsessed, apparently.

"I'm not, Luna," she admitted. "I'm really bloody not."

"That's understandable," Luna said, kindly. "You're planning this dreadfully dangerous raid on Gringott's-"

"How do you know about that?" Hermione demanded, lifting her face. Luna merely blinked at her, then gave her a stern look.

"It's not been hard to figure out, Hermione. But you're not scared of all that, are you? You're miserable because you're lovesick."

This time, Hermione jumped up off the bed and shook her head. "I absolutely am not! Not even in the slightest! I mean, that's the most preposterous thing I think I've ever heard and given some of the things I hear, that's saying something!" she said throwing her hands up. "I mean, it's ridiculous! Outrageous!"

"But that doesn't make it any less true," Luna said, gentle, her grey eyes wise and sad. "You call her name. You have done since the first night after you were healed."

Hermione felt as if everything inside her chest had turned to ice. She felt her breath leave her in a long gasp and sat down heavily on her bed. Her mind was blank, failing her utterly. Her heart was loud in her ears, erratic and desperate. "Luna, please don't say that."

"All right," she agreed, amiably. "I won't mention it again. But it's true, which is all I'll say on the subject."

It was like the moment after stepping into cold water, when it closed over your head and drowned your senses. Sounds came from far away but seemed amplified. Light flickered fitfully and her limbs seemed weighed down. Hermione shook her head and closed her eyes. Suddenly, _it_ was real. Luna had called her feelings into being with her casually spoken words and submerged her in them. They had form now and substance that had been absent before. She was quiet for a moment, feeling her world shift underneath her feet.

She hung floating in the deep, denial and bluster on the tip of her tongue. She looked up at Luna's sad eyes and felt tears well within her own. She didn't have the strength to lie, to deny it when Luna obviously knew precisely what was going on.

"I don't know how this happened, Luna. I didn't _want_ this to happen. I didn't go looking for it."

Surfacing, she felt tears build. She felt woozy and unsteady, as though she'd gone a long time without air. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

"I really didn't."

"I understand," Luna said, kindly. "But how? Well, you're both kind, intelligent women whom most people find a teeny bit grating on occasion," she blithely ignored the filthy look Hermione sent her way, "who found themselves in a hugely emotional situation. Both of your hearts were laid quite bare, I imagine. It's no great surprise."

"But Luna..." Hermione said, nervous and anxious though relieved to actually have someone with whom she could discuss the subject. But as soon as the relief welled within her, it was followed closely by terror. Now was not the time to bend a sympathetic ear! Now was not the time to delve for the truth regarding her feelings, so soon before they left. It was too late and too painful to try.

"Fleur is married to Bill, bonded for life. It doesn't matter what we feel." She poured all her battered authority into it, trying to recall her previous life as a prefect. It seemed so dreadfully far away. The finality sounded quite impressive to her ears, however, even as her chest ached.

Luna was quiet for a moment. "Bill and Fleur are a beautiful couple and they love each other very much. But Fleur was very young when she got married. What if they're not the ones for one another?"

Hermione digested that for a while. Fleur had only been twenty when she married and Bill was seven years her senior. Could Luna be right? Could they have rushed into it, caught up in the dervish of fin de siécle mania that so permeated the wizarding world? If they'd made a mistake, was it right to hold them to it? A tiny spark of hope lit in her, before she threw herself against it, smothering it.

"And Bill…" Luna said, softly. She was silent for a long time. "Bill is so very sad. He's a rare person, who carries his scars for all to see. But I think he has more that none of us can perceive."

Hermione could barely stand the thought of Bill, as it brought with it such deep, stinging shame with it. She turned back to Luna, desperate for this conversation to end. She opened her mouth to speak, but Luna beat her to the punch.

"Fleur cares for you, too. She got you your wand core, didn't she? She lay with you here and looked after you when you were so ill. She's devoted so much time to you and she seems so happy when she does. She lights up around you, Hermione. She's so much more beautiful."

Hermione found herself unable to speak for a long time. She sat remembering all the other things that Fleur had done for her that no one else knew about. There was no use denying that the other witch cared deeply for her. She'd heard the words from her own mouth and more than that, felt it within her in those quiet moments they shared. "I know she does. But I can't, Luna."

The pale witch stared at her with her piercing grey eyes, disappointment sitting plainly. "Then you have to forget about her. Close off the place in your heart that she lives in and move on. Which is horrible and I wouldn't advise you to actually attempt it."

_You see. Someone else thinks you should be gnawing off parts!_

Hermione was still, pondering that for a while. She felt raw, stripped bare before Luna's insight. It had caught her unawares, her friend holding a mirror to notions only half articulated. She'd made that mistake before, underestimating Luna's unique perspicacity. She suspected she'd never repeat the same mistake, after this.

Raw and exhausted, she slumped, holding her face in her hands. Her mind was tired and her soul sore. For a wild moment, she found that spark of hope flare again. Having someone else acknowledge, and approve, her feelings was powerful indeed. She felt as though she'd been given permission to imagine, for a moment, allowing herself to accept Fleur's plan.

"I've never even heard of two witches who actually, you know…" she said, lamely. "Is it even done?"

"I've known some men and women who prefer the company of their own sex," Luna said, shrugging. "It's changed now, with you-know-who in power… I don't really know. My father's brother lived with a lovely man named Tim for twenty years. But people have always said our family is rather odd." She tipped her head to one side, sorrow on her face. "But you need to decide for yourself, you know. You're already quite odd, so I'm not sure anyone will notice a little bit extra on top."

Hermione was about to respond when a shout came up from the kitchen. Both girls grabbed their wands and flew down the stairs, terrified of what they'd encounter. All thoughts of love and lies were banished from their minds, the door creaking shut as they fled.

* * *

><p>Happily, the shouts had heralded the arrival of Remus Lupin with wonderful news regarding the birth of his son. Hermione had been utterly relieved to see no trace of the anger caused by the scene in Grimmauld Place. Lupin had been giddy, delighted and ecstatic. He'd made his way over to ask Harry to take on the role of Teddy's godfather and the delighted flush on her friend's face had been marvellous to behold.<p>

Lupin had stayed for most of an hour before returning home to Tonks and Teddy. The rest of the inhabitants of Shell Cottage sat on, finishing the opened bottles of wine and getting ever so slightly tipsy. They'd laughed and joked, their spirits high in the wake of such wondrous news.

Hermione later found herself gathering empty wine bottles and goblets in the living room, still delighted and perhaps a little bit merry. She headed for the kitchen and was surprised to see Fleur standing outside the door, an impatient expression on her face. Spying her, the other witch lifted an eyebrow in invitation and they wandered into the parlour. Hermione followed, not quite knowing what to expect and uneasy with nerves. With anticipation.

"Well," Fleur said, "such a wonderful surprise. I cannot wait to meet young Master Lupin."

Hermione sighed with relief. So, they weren't going to revisit their earlier chat. She felt edgy, though, still anxious. "I can't either. He sounds lovely. It's so odd to think though, Tonks a mum."

"Indeed," Fleur agreed. "I suspect she'll be as much of a handful as her son. I imagine Remus shall be the keeper of order and sanity in that house."

Hermione laughed, relieved to be talking about such a happy subject. She still didn't really know what to say to Fleur and her conversation with Luna had only confused her. She sighed, squeezing her eyes closed. There was so much she wanted to know, to understand, but she had no idea where to start.

_If only we had more time._

"Fleur, I don't think we're coming back, after we go," she said, sadly. She didn't want Fleur watching for them or worrying when they didn't return. The thought that they wouldn't be coming back after they departed made her feel so lonely, as though she was giving up something that once relinquished, she'd never reclaim.

"I know," Fleur said, sorrow in her bright eyes. "Bill has already given Harry his old tent. Please don't judge him too harshly for not washing it." She cracked a little smile at Fleur's attempt at humour. The tall witch dipped her head, averting her eyes and clenching her jaw for a moment, obviously upset. "I wish you all would stay here. I wish you did not have to go and do this thing. I wish we could look after all of you."

Hermione knew she longed to add _I wish I could look after you_. She felt all the happiness of the evening evaporate as if it had never occurred. The wine she'd drunk felt thick and sickly in her stomach and acidic in her mouth. She heard the kitchen door open and saw Bill and Harry exit, an odd look on the latter man's face. He headed for the living room and Bill spied her and Fleur.

She was struck with a sudden fear and embarrassment and quickly turned her face away, grabbing some goblets and rushing to the kitchen. She heard Fleur call her name but ignored her, bustling to the sink.

She stood gripping the cracked porcelain, her knuckles white as she took several deep breaths. For lack of anything to do, she began scrubbing the dishes in the muggle manner, too nervous to use magic. Good god, how was she supposed to face the man? She was essentially having an affair with his wife!

_Whatever notions you might have, you need to forget them. You're not going to help someone cheat on her husband._

It was agonising how much she wanted to, though.

* * *

><p>It was late by the time Fleur made her way upstairs and while she was weary, she was in no mood to sleep. She had changed into her pyjamas, though, in preparation for some reading in the parlour. There was no sense in being uncomfortable, after all.<p>

"She won't do it, you know," Bill said, closing the door after him and with folding his arms. Fleur sighed, watching his icy eyes. She knew he was upset and she didn't blame him. Why couldn't he talk about Teddy Lupin instead?

"So be it, then," she said quietly. "I've been researching enchanted armour, too… Perhaps I could charm her clothes. If there was more time..." She trailed off. There was no time left for them and she was foolish to delude herself otherwise. Hermione would spend another day in the house and then be gone from her life, walking into peril and danger. Gone perhaps to her death.

"Those things are unreliable at the best of times," Bill huffed, interrupting her morbid thoughts.

"I should have spent more time researching them," she said with regret. "But I was caught up in this, in Lily's theories."

Bill shrugged. He was silent, brooding as he stared at the carpet. Fleur heaved a sigh, rubbing her forehead.

"Bill…"

"It's not fair," he said, quietly. "I mean, I understand, you wanting to but… It's not fair."

Her heart ached for him, for his quiet grief. The thought that she was hurting him, of wounding him, made her feel about three inches tall. "I won't, Bill."

"You should, though," he said, bitterly. "Go ahead. Why shouldn't you? And all the rest, too! What's stopping you? I mean, apart from the fact that you're lying to her."

Fleur's hear thumped in her chest and anger coursed through her, briefly flaring before it boiled away. She knew that he was hurt and lashing out at her. He rarely did so and so she let it wash over her, not allowing her temper to get a head start on her common sense. But she didn't let it go unanswered, she was not one to take such things lying down.

"I don't know what else to do," she said, as calmly as she could. "I don't have anything else to pull from my sleeve! And I'm not lying to her."

"Just carefully omitting some pertinent details," he said, shaking his head. "You told me it was her choice but how can she choose if she doesn't know?"

Fleur was silent, feeling her frustration with him build. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't be entirely honest, after all, she thought with uncharacteristic bitterness. Her heart was sore and abraded with the conflict. She'd told Bill of her plan that afternoon, before speaking to Hermione, and he'd been appalled. He'd denounced it as folly but he hadn't been able to offer an alternative that would keep Hermione safe. After a certain amount of arguing, he'd agreed that it was a good way to keep her safe but he'd still found it to be unacceptable. They'd had to leave the conversation, both wounded and raw. But he'd agreed that he wouldn't stop her, which had been something, at least.

"Well, what should I tell her, then?" she asked, trying to be gentle despite her growing frustration. It wasn't Bill's fault that she was in this bind, it was her own, but she knew he'd find some way to blame himself.

"That you're not doing it?" he laughed. "I don't know. Fuck. I don't know. It's entirely up to you."

She felt her cheeks heat with anger. "That's not a truth, either. I made you a promise-"

"I know!" he barked, pushing off the wall and starting to pace. "I know," he said, more softly after a moment. "And I should be the bigger person here and release you from it, shouldn't I?"

Her heart softened at the fear and sorrow in his voice. Pathos gripped her and she went to him, putting her hands on his broad shoulders. The conflict in his voice was clear in his eyes, breaking her heart. "Oh Bill, I'd never ask that."

He looked miserable. "I'm sorry. I wish I was as brave as you but… I just don't want to lose it all, Fleur. I worked so hard and, and it was all starting to feel…"

"I know," she said, sadly. She sighed and let her head drop to lie over his heart. "None of us are very brave, right now." She curled against him, holding onto him and laying her face against his chest.

They were quiet for a while. Eventually, Bill sighed and wrapped his arms around Fleur, running a gentle hand over her hair. "I'm jealous, you know."

"Are you?" she asked, quietly. "Don't be. It's not an enviable situation."

"Still…" he sighed.

After a long moment, she closed her eyes. She set aside her anger with him for he'd raised a valid point. She'd not even considered the issue until he'd mentioned it and now she felt wretched. How could she have failed to consider the fact that Hermione could not, without knowing everything, make a wise decision? She'd convinced herself that Hermione was fully capable of making up her own mind but how could she, how could anyone, if they weren't in possession of the full facts?

_See how close you came to utterly violating the trust between you. See what you really are._

"You are right. I can't do it. I can't lie to her. I told myself it would be her decision but how can she decide when she doesn't know?"

Bill nodded, settling his chin on top of her head. "She can't. You'd be taking that away from her. And she's so young, Fleur."

She frowned at that. She resented the implication there, that she was taking advantage of some naive and guileless young ingenue. Hermione was sensible and mature beyond her years and knew better than most the uglier side of human nature. If she hadn't felt Hermione capable of choosing for herself, she'd never have suggested it in the first place. Besides, while Bill was almost a decade older than Hermione, she herself was not. Sometimes, she felt Bill forgot the age difference between them.

"She is two years younger than I am and has grown up quickly."

"But she hasn't been out in the real world," he chided, gently. "You've finished school; had a job. Gotten married…"

"She is no child, if that's what you are saying. In fact, I think she is much wiser than I am."

Bill was quiet for a long time. "Who are you trying to convince?"

She felt it like a blow from a clenched fist. Was this what it was to break the foundations of ones idea of self? To find when tested, ones morals left much to be desired? To the extent that it became necessary to alter ones beliefs in order to justify behaviour? The idea left her shaken. She'd had more faith in her own moral fibre than that but had it been misplaced?

She pressed herself into Bill's chest, squeezing her eyes shut. So, when backed into a corner, this is what she became? Was she so twisted by the life she'd lived that this was the miserable result? Despair pressed against her, crushing her in a dark moment of self-pity.

_Why can life not be simple, again? As it was when first we met?_

"It is just _so_ hard."

"I know it is, love," he whispered. "And I wish it wasn't."

* * *

><p>Hermione found herself restless, unable to sit still for more than a few moments. She couldn't focus on a page to read or calm her racing mind. She knew it was a disastrous way to be, so soon before they left to continue their quest. She needed to rest while she still could, before her life plunged back into chaos and doubt. But her mind was wide awake and sleep seemed far away and utterly unnecessary.<p>

Luna was lying in her bed, eyes closed, but she heaved a great sigh.

"You know, that's how I knew," she said, some humour in her voice.

"What?" Hermione demanded, jumping slightly at the sound of Luna's voice.

"The Giddy Bagorums. They only nest around people whose hearts are in turmoil. Or people with a decision to make. I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that there's an enormous colony feeding off you, right now."

"Well," Hermione huffed, "at least I can prove helpful to _someone_, even if it is just to provide a source of nourishment."

"Don't be churlish, Hermione," Luna scolded, "it doesn't suit you."

She sighed. Luna was right; she was acting like a brat. "Sorry Luna. I might go and sit in the kitchen for a bit."

"Try some hot milk," Luna suggested, kindly. "It's the second best way to get to sleep."

Hermione was tempted to ask about the best way, but chose not to. With Luna, the answer could range from happy thoughts to opium. It was often better to leave such ideas alone.

On the stairs, she couldn't hear Bill snoring. She hoped he was sleeping on his side, rather than lying awake mulling the situation over in his mind. She felt dreadful for him and regretted her part in his pain not for her own sake, but because she genuinely liked Bill and didn't wish him any harm. Out of all the Weasleys, apart from Ginny, she found him the easiest to spend time with. His gentle humour and effortless kindness had soothed them all since their arrival. She hated the thought that she'd caused him to suffer.

She continued down the stairs and as she turned to enter the kitchen, noticed a light flickering from beneath the parlour door. She knew that it could only be Fleur or Harry, at such an hour, and given the four glasses of wine that Harry had imbibed, she doubted it was him.

Alone in the expectant quiet of the night, she felt something in her, urging her to go and speak to Fleur. Her mind had been ruminating on all that she'd said the previous day and she found herself with many questions. She'd expended so much mental effort on the emotional implications of the offer that she'd largely ignored the intellectual problems it posed.

It annoyed her, given how uncharacteristic of her it was. She found herself gripped with a sudden urge to understand the spell, to get her mind around the mechanics of it. Perhaps she could even find a flaw in it; some problem that once revealed, would render it useless. If a logical reason for refusal could be found, she wouldn't be so dependent on her horribly unreliable emotions. She could accept that she wanted to be Fleur's lover, but would be able to move beyond that. Her mind had always been her greatest tool and she'd be foolish to abandon it now after a little bout of emotional lability.

Resolved, she took a deep breath, mustering her courage, and knocked on the parlour door before entering. Fleur was seated at her desk, her back to the door. She lifted her head, turning and fixing Hermione with an intense gaze before standing up.

_Goodness, she's tall._

"Hermione," she said, evenly, though it seemed to require some effort. "What has you awake at this hour?"

There was a meek optimism in those shining eyes and the temptation to reward that fragile hope was so strong that Hermione almost faltered. Her voice was robbed and she opened her mouth stupidly, dumbly. Frustrated with herself, she cleared her throat. She had to get a grip of herself.

"I had a few questions, Fleur," she said, her voice unsteady, "about the spell." The blonde nodded, nodding to the pair of armchairs beside the fire. She took her seat and regarded her thoughtfully. Hermione, despite the shakiness in her legs, remained standing.

"What do you wish to know?" Fleur asked, gently.

She closed her eyes. There was one answer she wanted above all else but it was so bloody embarrassing. She took a breath, knowing that if she didn't ask now, she'd never have another chance. "Why does it have to be sex?" she asked, the question rushing out, mumbled and slightly incoherent. Her cheeks flared hotly and it took a great effort to open her eyes and train them to Fleur's face.

Fleur considered the question carefully before she answered, inscrutable in the firelight. "I asked myself the same thing. I asked if there were not other moments I could give or other sacrifices to make. In truth, there is nothing else I can offer."

Hermione rubbed her forehead wearily. "I don't see why it matters so much. It's just… It's not the most important thing in the world. What's it really worth, at the end of the day?"

Fleur cracked a small smile at that. "Indeed, taken alone it has little meaning. I share your opinion but, and this is crucial, it is _perceived_ as being important. It has currency. The most important thing in the world? It is not even the most important thing in a relationship!"

Hermione smiled at that, shaking her head ruefully. "I suppose not. Does the fact that it would happen once increase this currency?"

Fleur's face was shadowed and she took a long time to answer. "There is always value in rarity, in something that can happen but once. In an event that cannot be repeated; a gift that can only be given once."

Hermione tipped her head to one side. "But very few people only have sex once, my parents being a prime example," she said, wryly. "What I mean is, does this spell work because we promise not to repeat the act? Or… I don't understand."

Fleur drew a deep breath, rising from her seat and walking to set another log on the fire. She appeared _ordinary_ and young as she stacked fuel on the fire in the muggle way. She dusted her hands off, sitting back on her haunches and looking into the flames.

"I made a mistake, I think," she said, causing Hermione to blink.

"What?"

"It is a foolish idea. My judgement was poor," she said, gazing into the fire. "I almost did a dreadful thing because I let my desire cloud my good sense."

Hermione felt her pulse hammer through her limbs. This was not what she'd been expecting, at all. "Fleur?"

"I withdraw my plan," she said, giving a humourless bark of a laugh. "I don't think we should try it."

Hermione felt relief and disappointment, both harsh in her chest. She was utterly confused, though. Is this what the boys felt like when dealing with girls, she wondered. The sudden about-face was baffling and while she was somewhat glad that they'd be putting the whole thing behind them, she understood this less than the original proposal.

"This is a turn around," she said, blushing. "Though, I should be getting used to those by now. I mean, you were all for it yesterday. What's changed?"

Fleur rubbed her face with both hands, looking very tired and slight.

"I was reminded of several things I had forgotten, or ignored."

Hermione leaned forward. "Reasons why it wouldn't work?"

Fleur shook her head. "That is the worst. It would work. I know I can confer protection upon you. But I can't."

Feeling completely thrown, Hermione watched Fleur carefully. The grief on her face was terrible to behold, her features contorted painfully. Confused but not wanting to see the other witch so distraught, she stooped to kneel beside Fleur, placing a hand on her elbow.

"I don't understand, Fleur," she said, feeling her frustration grow. "Why can't you? Would it endanger you?" If this was the case, she was going to be very, very cross indeed. Now wasn't the time for ridiculous heroics, not when they needed every wand for the coming war. Not when she truly didn't feel that she was worth anyone risking themselves over.

"No!" Fleur said, laughing again. "No. Oh, Hermione. No. It would not harm me. But Bill reminded me that it could hurt you." She turned damp eyes to her, regret and apology mixing there.

"What? How?" Hermione asked, taken aback. She doubted that Fleur meant that statement to mean that she'd put her in harm's way. Doubted it and needed to disprove it.

"Because there are things I cannot tell you," Fleur said, sitting heavily on the rug, turning and gazing into the fire. "I am not what you think I am. _Who_ you think I am. If you knew, it would probably effect your decision. Hence… Well. That's the end, no?"

"Why not tell me, then?" she asked, heart stricken to see Fleur so unhappy. "It can't be that bad."

Fleur shook her head, tears gathering. "I don't know about that. But more to the point, it is not mine to tell. And so, I am caught in a bind! I swore to protect you but to do so…"

"Would break your promise," Hermione finished. She was astounded to see tears gathering in Fleur's eyes, her composure fading rapidly. She'd become accustomed to seeing Fleur's strength, her conviction and confidence, and seeing her so lost was strange indeed. She saw for the first time how _worried_ Fleur was, how she feared the days to come as much as Hermione herself did. Compassion gripped her and her thumb moved over Fleur's arm in an attempt to comfort.

"I was going to lie to you, you know," she said, quietly. "In my head, the ends justified the means. And if it were just my soul, my heart to break, I'd do it in a second but it is not only me who stands to suffer." She met Hermione's gaze, eyes only slightly wavering.

"We must balance the benefits against the cost of such a thing. And it is unfair! On one side there is this protection, which could save your life. And what is more precious? But weigh this against lies and deception… About taking away your choice in the matter… I cannot bring myself, Hermione. If we chase these ends at the cost of doing the right thing…"

"We're no better than the enemy." Hermione finished. She was shaken, then. What kind of secret did Fleur hide? Was it to do with the veela? They were insular creatures and guarded their mysteries well. There was too much for her to take in, though. Fleur had considered lying to her? The other witch was weeping softly now, unable to look at her. Hurt bloomed in her chest at the mention of betrayal. Hadn't there been enough of that?

_But she didn't._

She didn't. And now she was suffering.

Not knowing how to feel about this unexpected revelation, Hermione lifted a shaking hand and smoothed a strand of hair behind Fleur's ear. Tears rolled over the other woman's cheeks and her eyes slid shut, an anguished frown between her eye brows. It felt strange to be the one reaching out, to be the one providing comfort. She felt off-kilter, conflicted. She didn't know what to think but it was easy to reach out, to forget her own cares and attempt to soothe Fleur's.

"You're upset," Hermione said apologetically, "and it's my fault."

"No!" Fleur said, firmly, turning to face her, "no. Never yours, Hermione. Never think that."

They were silent for a long moment, staring into each other's eyes. Hermione's mind spun trying to imagine what secret Fleur could be hiding and could think of none; her mind utterly blank. But she held secrets too, though she could at least share hers with the boys. Did Fleur have such a confident? What weighed so heavily on her conscience?

"We all have secrets, Fleur," she said, sadly. "All have crosses to bear. Please don't let yours crush you. I mean, you've done so much for all of us. For me. Let me help you."

"You are helping," Fleur said, a smile wobbling onto her face, "just by being here. Just by being in my life. You give me hope for the future. That this world will improve."

Hermione sighed, turning to look into the fire. "I don't know about that. I'm not feeling too hopeful right now. And we're out of time." Regret bloomed in her. Even if she did wish to help, what use would she be in the time she had left? "I wish I could help you. But I don't know how to. I wish I could get to know you better, Fleur, that I could puzzle out what to do. How to make things better."

"You are, though."

There was a long silence. The fire cracked and snapped within the grate, filling the little room with a subtle scent. Hermione sighed sadly, confused and feeling completely useless to help. She looked up and felt her face fall with grief, unsure of what she could say; of what she needed to say. There was so much within her that she was worried that if she started, she'd never finish. So much had happened in such a brief period and she hadn't been able to sort through any but the most superficial of her thoughts. But she knew she needed to say _something._

"I understand secrets. I hate them, but they are sometimes necessary, I have to admit. I, I just… You think it would change how I feel but I doubt it would, Fleur. There's nothing you could tell me that would make me feel differently about you. But," she floundered, not sure what to say, how to convince Fleur of her sincerity. "But I'm stubborn. Not one to change my mind easily. It's the same as how nothing you could tell me that would make me agree to your plan, even if you hadn't withdrawn your offer," she said, aiming for a bit of humour.

Fleur squeezed her eyes shut and her shoulders shook. She lifted a hand to her mouth, covering it in a valiant attempt to smother her sobs. Hermione was horrified. She'd never imagined Fleur, of all people, becoming so upset. Heart pounding with worry, she scooted forwards, in a bit of a fluster. She put her hands on Fleur's shoulders, attempting to soothe her. After a moment, she tugged the other woman into her arms, rubbing her back and whispering to her.

Fleur had been such a source of strength for her, in the previous weeks, that she offered her arms without hesitation. Whatever romantic complications they were heaping on the situation, she was Fleur's friend and would do what she could to ease her pain. It felt odd, though, to be the one offering succour. She ran a hand over her trembling shoulders, shushing her quietly. She was surprised that she still had enough of her old self left intact to do this.

_Because she put you back together, you twit. And at what cost to herself?_

It was odd, but oddly familiar too. As if this was something that she'd been born knowing. Fleur's sobs quietened and she loosened her grip. Hermione released her slowly, worried that she had no other way to help comfort the other witch.

Fleur pulled back, eyes red and raw with grief. "I feel as if I cannot speak, that anything I say will make a traitor of me," she rasped. "I'm sorry, for going to pieces. It is not like me."

"No! No, please don't apologise," Hermione said, releasing her fully. "Don't. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to."

"It is the only part of this in which you are at fault," Fleur said, conjuring a handkerchief and wiping her eyes. "You are too brilliant for your own good. For my own good. I… I am too clumsy with words." She blew her nose and Hermione had to suppress a small smile.

"No, no you're not," Hermione reassured her. "You're wonderful with words."

Fleur shook her head. "I'm sorry. I came so close to deceiving you…"

"But you didn't. You chose not to."

"Only after Bill talked sense into me." Hermione took that in, mulling it over for a second. She couldn't find any anger for the other woman and decided she was probably too tired for any. Besides, Fleur had _chosen_ not to and that meant a lot to Hermione. It was one thing to feel an impulse and another entirely to act on it.

"Sometimes we all need a nudge in the right direction. It's easy to get blinkered."

Fleur sniffled and blew her nose again. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose reddened. She looked younger than Hermione ever remembered seeing her, grief-stricken at her perceived failure.

"Are you all right?" Hermione asked, softly.

"I am. I am sorry. I ran ahead, offering you this plan without thinking it through. Without regard for the consequences. I was hasty and… And I'm sorry."

Hermione nodded. "I know. It's all right. I mean, I've heard a lot of mental plans in the last year. That one though, it took the biscuit."

Fleur managed a gruff chuckle. "I am nothing if not excessive in my ridiculousness."

Hermione laughed too. She straightened her back and set her hands on her knees, shaking her head.

"Right. I'm off to bed. Are you all right?"

"I am. I'm sorry for weeping on your shoulder."

Hermione rolled her eyes. If there was one of them who needed to apologise for that, it wasn't Fleur. She stood up and watched Fleur mimic her actions. It felt strange, to have their recent roles so completely reversed but sad, too. She saw for the first time, how much Fleur had taken on her shoulders. She sighed. If only…

"If you ever want to talk, Fleur… I know we don't have much time but, well… I'll always listen."

Fleur's eyes were shining in the firelight, sparkling with her usual spirit as she came back to herself. She fixed Hermione with a soft expression, wistful and regretful.

"If we survive this, if the world resumes its normal orbit, I promise you, I will tell you."

"All right. I can live with that."


	8. Your Invincible Defeat

Dear Reader,

Well, here's the next chapter, for your enjoyment. I felt that since the it's so long, the night should be put to good use! The shortest day of the year is behind us. Once again, thank you to everyone who has left a review. They're utterly wonderful and very thought provoking. They certainly make me think and that will, undoubtedly, mean a better story.

So make yourself comfy and please enjoy. And enjoy the solstice, if you're in a part of the world where weather permits.

* * *

><p>Fleur woke suddenly, disorientated and groggy. She wiped a hand over her eyes, squirming from her uncomfortable position. Her neck was stiff, the consequences of nodding off in the parlour armchair. She blinked and stood, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.<p>

What woke her so rudely, she wondered, thoroughly muddled. She gestured towards a lamp, squinting as it flared to life. The mantle clock read almost a quarter past four and she was baffled as to what could have disturbed her. She stood for a moment, gathering her scattered wits and after several moments, she heard a noise from the kitchen.

Fear rippled down her spine and she drew her wand, shoving a hand through her hair, batting it back from around her face. She listened closely, alert and anxious. Something was knocking erratically, tapping and pricking against the glass in the back door.

_I lit the lamp. They know someone's awake… Shit_

She stood still, unsure of how to proceed. A doleful, and familiar, hoot floated faintly through the gloom and her eyes widened. She listened for a long moment, frowning suspiciously. It sounded just like Andromeda Tonk's owl, Otis. He'd visited on rare occasions, sometimes bearing second hand news as he was one of the few birds who could find the cottage. What on earth was he doing rapping at the back door at such a ridiculous hour, though? Was everything all right with the Lupin family?

She listened carefully, for any fear or hint of foul play. The bird sounded tired and annoyed, more than anything else. She shielded herself and crouched, slipping through the door and into the hall. She inched through the corridor, low and tighter than a bow string. Her wand was held before her, clenched tightly in white knuckles. The kitchen door lay slightly ajar and she peered through the gap. Otis was sitting on the sill beneath the window over the sink, pecking impatiently with his hard beak. She closed her eyes and extended her awareness, as she'd once been taught.

Life thrummed behind her. A mass, a glorious riot of pulse, breath and dream lit the night behind her back. They were all indistinguishable; an amorphous and shifting explosion of vital force. Before her, amongst the shadows of this shifting light, sat the stern and unimaginative form of an owl. He was by himself and appeared thoroughly miserable.

Fleur breathed in relief but still approached him stealthily. When she was sure that he was alone, she opened the back door and he burst in, an angry snap of feathers and grasping talons. He settled on the back of a kitchen chair, swivelling his head truculently and glaring at her from beneath a thick, feathery brow.

"Welcome," she said, taking several pieces of dried meat from a pot beside the door. "Thank you for your efforts, my friend."

He made sure to nip her fingers as he took his treat and only reluctantly raised his leg. She forgave him quickly; she wouldn't have been at her best if she'd been left outside at four o'clock in the morning.

She lifted the letter, seeing Kingsley's seal beneath Bill's name in the dim light. She frowned. So Kingsley had visited Lupin in order to contact Bill, then. What was so urgent what it required attention at such a time? She left Otis with several treats and hurried upstairs, as quietly as she could manage.

Bill was curled beneath the duvet, only the top of his head visible. She rocked him gently, whispering to him. He woke with a jerk, turning onto his back and blinking in the dim light of her wand.

"Fleur? What? What's happened?"

"I don't know," she said, "cover your eyes, I will light the lamps."

He obeyed and after several moments, he lowered his hands from his face. He inhaled deeply, groaning.

"What time is it?"

"After four. Otis came. Here."

She handed him the message and watched as he woke, his face loosing the last traces of sleep and wakening fully. A grim and worried expression sat on his face.

"Kingsley. He's asked for us to come and help him."

She nodded, heading for her wardrobe, grabbing a pair of jeans off the back of a chair. Bill threw back the duvet and stood, shaking his head.

"Fleur, no."

"He asked for both of us," she said, stubbornly.

"And if he knew who was here, he wouldn't have asked for _either_ of us." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Don't be daft, come on. One of us has to stay."

"Then you stay," she said, glaring up at him. Given that Bill was dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, she felt his argument was somewhat invalidated. He shook his head ruefully.

"I'd love to. But I know what this is about." He frowned, eyes darkening at the memory. "When I went out the other day, this is what we were working on. We need to act quickly and they won't have time to give you all the details. You'd waste time."

Fleur fumed. "I am a quick learner!"

"I know you are," he said, whispering as best he could, "but you need to stay here! If you leave, your defences leave. Everyone here will be left incredibly vulnerable. The Fidelus won't be affected by me going."

"Unless you're captured and tortured," she said, tears welling. She couldn't bear the thought of him leaving, when there was so much anger and hurt between them. He lifted one side of his mouth in a sad grin and shrugged.

"So be it. You'll know, though, won't you? If they get me?" He swallowed once, pale in the dim lamp light. "And you'll get them out of here."

She nodded, a great lump in her throat. He lifted his own jeans off the back of the bed stand and hopped into them, hunting around for warm socks. She delved into the dresser, trying to find something decent for him to wear. She found a plain, warm, soft knitted jumper with a hood. It had been given to her by a friend of her grandmother's, though she'd never worn it. With a wave of her wand, the forest green wool seemed to take a deep breath, stretching to a size that would accommodate Bill's broad chest.

He smiled as he took it, evidently charmed. He slid it on and lifted his wand from the bedside, grasping it closely.

"Ready to go?" he asked cheekily, opening the door.

Fleur was tempted to tell him to piss off, but refrained. They tip-toed to the kitchen, soft on the creaky old floor boards. Bills kicked his feet into his battered boots and tugged a mossy, grey cloak around him. As moth-eaten as it was, it was almost impossible to see in dim light. He pulled on a pair of dragon hide gloves and nodded once at his wife.

"I'm off."

Fleur nodded, breath stuttering unevenly. "Don't die, please."

"I won't," he promised, drawing her into a quick, tight embrace. "Fucking hell, I won't. Don't you go doing anything mad, either."

Fleur laughed, tears welling in her eyes. "I cannot imagine what you're talking about."

They drew apart and their eyes met. There was a calm, surreal moment of understanding between the pair. On the edge of battle, they found a moment of peace with one another. There was so much Fleur wanted to say to Bill; to apologise for the last few days, to insist on going with him, to tell him how proud she was of his vast courage.

"My brave Bill," she managed.

He ducked his head, opening the back door. "Don't know about that, love."

"Well, I do," she said, firmly. He smiled back at her once and then ran out into the night, sprinting to the first point where he could safely apparate.

It wasn't until Otis chattered, annoyed by the chill, that she closed the back door and buried her face in her hands.

_Please, let him be all right._

* * *

><p>"They're in bed late," Ron grumbled around a mouthful of sausage.<p>

"Newly weds and all, mate," Dean said, cheekily. Ron's ears reddened while Harry choked on a sip of tea. Hermione resisted the urge to glare at the three of them, concentrating intently on the book before her.

"Well, your brother's a lucky man, is all I'll say," Dean sighed, "Fleur's ace."

"Not another one," Harry teased, apparently recovered. Hermione felt herself frowning mightily behind the safety of her book.

"It's contagious," Ron said, solemnly. "Must be veela thrall or summit. It doesn't work on me anymore because I'm used to her."

Hermione actually peered over the top of her book, at that, to properly glare at Ron. She felt such an idiotic remark deserved no less.

_Bollocks. The only thrall affecting you took its origins in your scrotum._

The boys laughed and Hermione slumped grumpily back down into her chair. She always hated when the boys forgot the fact that she was a girl and so was never too happy to listen to their inane babble regarding other members of her gender. It had taken her a long time to realise that it bothered her because it left her wondering how they spoke about her when she wasn't around them. She'd probably been a bit hurt, too, and perhaps a bit jealous. Above that, she'd gotten so sick of the fact that they never _saw_ her. They had an idea of her, she knew, but she often felt almost invisible to them and never more so that at times like these.

It had been frustrating and had scared her more than she'd care to admit. They were her best friends, after all. If they didn't known her, who would? Was she such an uninteresting, bland know-it-all that she wasn't worth the effort? In moments of fragility she still sometimes felt like that despite having realised it was all a matter of maturity. She was older than the boys and it was merely a matter of waiting for them to catch up with her. In fact, after their winter together, she felt that Harry had done so. She felt as if he really _knew_ her. As she knew him.

_Does he indeed? He doesn't have a clue about you being…_

She stood abruptly. The three boys, who'd been wittering on the entire time, turned wide eyes to her, guilt written on their faces. She cleared her throat, feeling a slight blush build.

"I'm going to go and make sure everything's packed. Make sure you do the dishes, don't leave a mess for Bill and Fleur."

She bustled up the stairs, moving softly. Despite herself, despite the fact that she didn't want to know, she paused, holding her breath. She heard a small noise behind the crooked door; an urgent and high gasp. Heart pounding, she drew back and rushed towards her own room, mortified at her nosiness and gall.

Luna was sitting cross-legged on the bed, sewing a patch onto one of her pairs of jeans, humming softly to herself. She nodded in greeting, her face folding into a frown when she saw Hermione, presumably confused by her blush.

"There's sausages, Luna," she said, fiddling around in an effort to forget what she'd just heard. Her heart was thumping in her chest, drowning her hearing and scorching her skin with heat.

"Thanks, I ate already," she replied, placidly. "Is Bill back yet?"

"What?" Hermione asked, almost skidding to a stop as she whirled around. "What do you mean?"

"Well, when I went down this morning, his cloak and boots were gone. I can't imagine where he went at such an early hour."

Hermione frowned mightily, glancing back at the door.

_If Bill's not here, then what on earth is going on in there?_

* * *

><p>Fleur found herself standing on a muddy path over a moor beneath a flat grey sky. She couldn't tell where the sun hung hidden or where in the world she was. The grass around the path was brown and dead, winter stripped and sodden with recent rain.<p>

_Rain? Or sleet?_ she wondered, the smell of ice sharp in the air. The heather and bog-myrtle were black and awkward in the desolation, brittle spiders against the iridescent blades of grass. No wind moved the scene and the mud was hard underfoot, as though preparing to freeze. She turned, seeing a wide pool of water drowning the narrow path behind her. Before her, the path led up a hill and so she followed it.

Time moved strangely and when she crested the hill, she found she couldn't remember the journey. The smell of smoke tickled her nose and she saw a miserable little cottage slumped at the top of the hill. The mean hovel appeared thatched, although it could have equally have been the creep of the moor onto its roof. A fence led away from it, wire strung between the trunks of felled trees. As she neared, she saw the stumps, cut much lower, of their twins on the opposite side of the path. A couple of dark trunks lay rotting in the long grass, collapsing in the damp air.

It had probably been lovely, she decided, before neglect and the wind took their toll. She hurried her steps, for it was cold and exposed on the hill side. Dread filled her, too, nameless and formless. A shadow between thought and all else. Fear danced along her spine and she went to draw her wand.

She was not armed.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Where was she going, unarmed and alone? She turned, gazing out over the desolate hills. No other life stirred in sight and no other paths broke the monotomy of the scene.

_What ever is waiting, it is in there._

She drew a deep breath and stepped forward, though more cautiously. As she neared, she focused her attention on the fence. It served not as a boundary nor to corral livestock. She held the back of her hand over her mouth, feeling her gorge rise. Spread out along the wire, the bodies of various animals hung for the world to see.

She'd seen gamekeeper's gibbets before, when she was younger. She'd even added to them, when she'd spent time with the veela. But those had served as collection points halfway between the branch and belly, as her friends had said. They'd saved time for hunters and cooks both. Others she'd seen, in France and Germany, had been a testament to the keeper's skill and sometimes the basis for pay.

But this was none of those things. The tattered, rotting remains of animals hung pathetically from the wire. They'd lost their eyes in most cases and many sported writhing mantles of maggots. Some were little more than bone and sinew with a small overlay of fur or feather.

Some were recognisable. A rat. A cat. Two large creatures that might have once been dogs. A lanky hare. A hen. A large bird of prey. A tiny weasel. Another dog, this one a handsome german shepherd. There were others, too many to take in at once. Further along the hedge, a shrike hopped along, cheerfully bobbing through the macabre scene.

This was not a display of skill nor a time saving device. This was something else; much more malicious and mocking in its intent. As she drew close to the cottage, the path widened to a filthy yard. Puddles in the mud were rimmed with a thick glaze of frost which cracked sharply beneath her boots. To one side of the hovel, a stack of firewood had been dumped. Several long branches sat in the chaos and she lifted the stoutest one she could find.

_Fleur,_ a voice echoed from her teenage years, _if all else fails, make sure you've got a big stick._

The memory brought a brief spark of happiness to her, easing her dread long enough for her to marshall her courage. Whatever was happening, it was occurring within this place and her presence was required.

She pushed the door open with the end of her impromptu staff, peering into the noisome gloom. She couldn't make out any details and reluctantly moved in. The door creaked shut behind her, robbing her of the small benefit of the grey daylight. After several moments, shapes resolved themselves in the dim and fluctuating light of the fire.

The fire… She frowned. She'd expected to see the wet logs from outside but instead, multicoloured flames danced over narrow, delicate sticks. They lay jumbled in the hearth, oddly resistant to combustion. As she watched, one exploded with a ferocious pop, something within it catching alight and flaring briefly.

_Wands_

Her mouth felt dry and terror froze her innards. Her felt her breath come quickly, little gusts leaving mist before her face. What an act! What a hateful thing this was! Shock froze her and she dragged her gaze away, wondering numbly what kind of a place could permit such a thing. What kind of person could allow such an act to take place beneath their roof?

She turned to take in the rest of the little room and was shocked to see a huge, grey dog lying on its side, rheumy yellow eyes fixed coldly on her. He was horribly thin; mangy and covered in wounds. His eyes oozed yellow pus, coating the fur beneath those hungry, savage eyes.

No pity welled in her, for she knew who lay gazing up at her. He panted, a cut tongue lolling from between broken teeth and bleeding gums.

"He's precious, isn't he?" asked a silky, amused voice. Fleur whirled, bringing her stick up between them. Almost unseen in a nook opposite the fireplace sat Bellatrix Lestrange. She leaned forward, her hooded eyes regarding Fleur with curiosity and wary care.

"I like him better this way. I like them all better like this."

Fleur frowned. "Unable to respond? I am not surprised to hear you prefer such company."

"One must choose ones companions carefully, especially if one wishes for privacy."

Bellatrix made no move. She had not drawn her wand nor lifted a finger. Her gaze was languid, for the moment, appraising and as hungry as the beast that lay at her feet. Her mouth was painted, a bold stripe of red against the chalky pallor of her cheeks and neck. She shifted, lifting her face and raising an eyebrow.

Fleur felt quite off-balance. What was she waiting for? What did she expect?

"I saw your little display out side," Fleur said, feeling awkward.

Bellatrix threw her head back as she cackled, standing and placing a hand over her bony chest. "Oh, my vermin! Weren't they awful?" she asked, pitching her voice low and breathy. "Filthy beasts."

"I hardly think a hare or a hen are vermin," Fleur countered, narrowing her eyes. This had gone on long enough. It was time to find out why she was there. "What do you want from me? Why have you summoned me here?"

Lestrange shrieked with laughter again. "Summon you? Why would I ever want to invite such an unappreciative audience? Why, I imagine you think you can hit me with your little stick," she said, in her cruel and mocking tone. "You're a trespasser."

Fleur supposed that was true enough and pursed her lips. Bellatrix cocked her head to one side, parroting her expression. Her waves of dark hair were wild and tangled but her clothes rich and well maintained. It disconcerted Fleur, for some reason.

Bellatrix sauntered over the filthy stone floor, the great hound still between them, watching balefully with his diseased eyes.

"But an audience none the less," she said, turning her back to Fleur and prodding at a pile of rubbish with the toe of her shoe. "Won't that be nice, poppet?"

If Fleur's blood had chilled earlier, it was frozen now. Her heart seemed to still within her chest, only taking up its rhythm with reluctance.

"No…" she breathed, suddenly understanding the dread that had been sitting heavily in her stomach. Horrified, she watched Bellatrix reach into the heap and impatiently pull at something within it. A filthy, emaciated wretch stumbled to her knees before falling again to land heavily on her chest.

"Up! Up for out lovely guest!" Bellatrix crowed, grabbing a hold of matted curly hair and pulling her upright. Despite the violent and undoubtedly painful treatment, Hermione made no sound.

If ice had filled her veins, fire lit her heart and soul. Screaming, she launched herself forward, aiming the butt of her staff at Bellatrix's head; right between her horrid eyes. In that moment, there was no room for conscious thought, only action. But before she got more than a couple of steps, a great mass of muscle, spite and fang reared up, slaver falling from his maw. She stumbled backwards, bowled over by his weight. She kicked his head as she went, earning a yelp.

"Ha! Our little French tart has some fight in her! _Ooh la la_!" Bellatrix laughed, tugging again at Hermione's hair. The beast held back, neck stiff as he snarled. Fleur scrambled up, finding herself close to the wall. She spared Hermione a glance, but only a quick one as the dog was inching closer. "Rip her entrails out, you worthless cur!"

He snarled ferociously, jaws wide and eyes starved. Fleur felt her own lip curl up at the sight, though she doubted her own teeth were quite so threatening. He bayed, deafening in the little room and lunged forward, eyes and teeth flashing as he went. Fleur felt ancient, sickening fear coil around her heart but stood firm.

_Just wait_, Fleur, that voice reminded, _wait for him to come to you._

She waited, though her heart was clenched with fear, until she saw her moment. She whipped the heavy wood up, catching him on the side of the face and jaw. She put all her strength and anger into the strike, turning to the side with the force. The dog was sent to the side, dazzled and whining but the rotten wood had shattered, leaving her with nothing but a handful of wet splinters.

"USELESS!" Bellatrix screamed, "Useless then, useless NOW!" The beast whined from his position, shaking his great head. He'd evidently walloped it upon hitting the wall and seemed to have jangled his wits. Fleur dared to move forward, turning her back on the beast, desperate to reach Hermione.

"Give 'er to me," she hissed, her accent thickening with her rage. Bellatrix raised an eyebrow, evidently amused and with utter disregard, flung Hermione towards her. It was as casual a gesture as tossing a ball for a dog or grain to a flock of birds. As if she had no need for her any more. Fleur darted forward, catching the slim form in her arms and cradling her close.

The smell was woeful; dirt and sweat, blood and rot mixed sickeningly together. Despite that, she buried her face into her hair, anger and grief welling in her chest. The hound growled and Bellatrix cackled once more but Fleur couldn't bring herself to care. Her hands shaking, she lifted Hermione's chin, desperate to see her.

To her horror, Hermione flinched at her touch, trembling weakly in her arms. Disbelief filled her and she whispered softly to her, calling her name and encouraging her. No matter what she tried, she could not console her friend.

"It's pathetic, isn't it?" Bellatrix sighed, almost wistfully, "how it never lasts. You think you've got youth or beauty or wit on your side and then… Gone."

Fleur felt rage building in her, choking her. Her fear had fled; chased by the protrusion of Hermione's bones through scraps of cloth that failed to protect her dignity. By the scrapes, bruises and dried blood visible on every exposed part of her. By the silent quivering.

"What did you do to 'er?" she demanded, turning hot and furious eyes to the witch beside them.

"How delightful! You do want to hear!"

"NO!" Fleur barked, feeling tears well. "Why?"

Bellatrix was quiet for a long moment, before she came to kneel before Fleur. Her eyes were filled with intensity, dark with righteousness and fervour. Fleur gripped Hermione more tightly, folding herself around the other witch.

"Why? Because of what she did to our Dark Lord! She is a filthy, thieving, nasty little mudblood! She and all her kind deserve to be hunted down and brought to heel like the animals they are! And one who was such a dear friend of Harry Potter," she sneered, lip curled over rotten teeth.

"It's sad, really. Heading off with the boys. Those silly little boys. Did she think they'd love her?" she asked, quietly, fingers steepled before her face. "Or was she just there for them to-"

"SILENCE!" Fleur roared. "She went with them because it was the right thing to do!"

Bellatrix clacked her teeth and shook her head. "Stupid girl. The _right_ thing. Who does the _right_ thing, eh? _They_ didn't. Look at her. Does she look like someone who did the right thing?"

Fleur still held Hermione firmly, despite her stiff posture. She pressed her cheek to Hermione's forehead and bit her lip. Something within her felt fractured, broken after seeing such cruelty displayed so openly and gleefully.

"She put up an impressive fight," Bellatrix sighed. "A wonderful opponent. So _clever_ and with just the right balance of blunt intelligence and base cunning to make it interesting. But she lost, didn't she? And look at her now."

Fleur tried to close her ears, her heart, to Bellatrix's voice, tremulously arranging Hermione's tattered rags about her thin form. As her hands moved, she noticed that while Hermione's limbs were cold and shaking, her brow and chest were feverish. Sweat mingled with the filth covering her and she loud breathing was harsh and wheezing. Infected lacerations seeped pus and crusted blood, a dreadful stench emanating from them.

"She was so bright," Bellatrix purred, "and so scared. She remembered what I did to her and oh! She was so frightened!" Her joy at the memory was disgusting, more so by how readily evident it was.

"Be quiet, you hateful hag!" Fleur hissed, anger burning within her.

"She wasn't!" she crowed, delighting in Fleur's distress, "she screamed! Oh, she screamed and she fought but in the end, she still lost. She was always going to lose."

She levelled her gaze at Fleur and what was shocking was the knowledge that this was no woman lost to madness; she was utterly in control of her faculties. She knew precisely what misery she inflicted. Fleur's anger burned all the more fiercely, lighting every part of her soul and calling on the oldest parts of it. Her mouth was dry with the thirst, the _hunger_, for vengeance. To spill this woman's blood on the filthy ground.

"You want to know _why_ I did this?" Bellatrix continued, mirth still curling her sensual mouth. "Why not? She and her kind are nothing but sport for me. Toys."

"You and your kind," Fleur growled, "witch or muggle, half blood or creature… Your kind don't belong in this world. Anyone who could do this…"

Fleur startled as Hermione began coughing, spasms wracking her malnourished frame. The cough was deep and brassy, leaving her breathless and limp in its wake. Fleur rubbed her back softly, able to feel the thrum of illness rattling through her lungs.

"I did it because I _can_." Bellatrix continued, tipping her head to one side. "Because now, with the Dark Lord triumphant, we can finally give them what they deserve. All of them."

Fleur ignored her, anger still blazing in her breast but meaningless compared to the need to care for the woman in her arms. Hermione was sick, perhaps deathly ill, and needed urgent care. The disease in her lungs was drowning her. Vengeance would come, when the time was right and she was properly armed for battle. "I am taking her with me."

Bellatrix laughed again. "Go ahead! There's nothing more there for me to bother with. Nothing left. Take her and spare me the bother of disposing of her bones."

Fleur shifted slightly, sliding her arms around Hermione's shoulders and knees, wondering if she'd be able to lift her. Wondering if she'd struggle at being carried. Pausing for a moment, she made one last effort to tip her face up, to see what was there. Hermione, breathing noisily and quickly, did not resist this time and Fleur felt her heart shatter at the sight. Cuts, bruises, burns and grime all marred her face.

But it was her eyes, those flat, dead eyes that spoke most loudly. Fleur's lip trembled and tears finally rolled over her cheeks. Unfocused and reddened, unseeing and vacant, there was nothing there of her friend. No spark of her humour, her wit, her ire or her affection lit the dark depths of those brown eyes. They might as well have been those of someone long dead, were it not for the heat burning her face and forehead.

"This is not real," she whispered, understanding dawning in a agonising moment, "this is not happening. This is a dream." She tore her gaze from Hermione's limpid stare and glared at Bellatrix. "I am dreaming."

Her mouth curled into a cruel, gleeful smirk. "Oh, really? Are you now. What a thing, then, to plague your peaceful dreams!"

Fleur was calmer now and took a deep breath. She brushed Hermione's hair back from her scalding brow, as gently as she could. This wasn't real; this was nothing more than her worst fears given form and shape in the darkness of the night.

"How little you know… How little you _understand_ about this world. About your place in it! A dream! Bah! This is no dream."

"It is," Fleur said, firmly. She pressed a kiss to Hermione's brow, lingering for a moment before lifting her face to Bellatrix.

"Begone from here. I have slept long enough."

Bellatrix stood, spreading her hands. The hound, quiet until now, stood too. "You had your chance with her, my dear, and you squandered it. She's mine."

"She is her own," Fleur replied, calmly. "She answers to no one but herself. But if you try to claim her, or any of your filthy associates do, I will stand before her. I will not let you touch her."

Bellatrix smirked. "Too late for that, at this stage," she said nodding down at Hermione. With a shuddering breath, her eyes rolled up in her head and she began to convulse. As weak as she was, the strength of her spasms was almost more than Fleur could control.

"Hermione," she hissed, wincing as she received a blow to the chest. "Please, Hermione!"

"So much suffering, for such a little scrap of a thing," Bellatrix cooed. "I never thought she'd last as long as she did." The hound whined, stepping forward, mouth falling open with hunger.

"Hermione!"

"She fought. She resisted and struggled with such determination!"

Hermione's mouth began to bleed, bright red blood running over her lips and frothing.

"No! No, please! Hermione!"

"I'll have her again," Bellatrix said, softly. "She is mine."

The hound threw back his head and howled, before throwing himself to her. Yellow teeth flashed in the light shed by burning wands and Bellatrix's cackle echoed through the dark room.

"NO!"

* * *

><p>"No!" Fleur gasped, shocked to find herself awake and in her bedroom. She was more surprised by the pair of slim hands on her shoulders, however. Tears welled in her eyes as they found Hermione's, concern and worry in that dark, wonderful, beloved gaze.<p>

Almost not daring to believe what she saw, she lifted a hand, which shook vigourously, and touched Hermione's brow. It was cool and soft to the touch, not fevered and grimy. She lifted the other and touched her cheeks, warm and downy. They warmed beneath her palms and she felt tears fall over her face, relief and delight filling her. She sat up, gripping the other witch in a tight embrace and startling her slightly, if her soft exhalation was anything to judge by.

Fleur greedily ran her hands over Hermione's back, feeling the bumps of her shoulders and the long planes along her spine. She was soft, though, healthy and hale in her arms. She turned her face and buried it in the other witch's hair, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. She was surrounded, almost smothered by her bushy hair and she revelled in the tangled, fragrant mess.

She held her for a long time before she pulled back and laid her hands on Hermione's shoulders. Her face was red with confusion and perhaps a bit of embarrassment, her eyes shining and making a great effort to figure out what was happening. Her beating heart raised a pulse at the base of her pale throat and the clean, healthy scent of her was intoxicating. Fleur couldn't help but lay her thumb over that pulse, delighting in the vital, powerful movement there.

Hermione swallowed, her throat bobbing nervously. Fleur was captivated by the sight, by all the evidence of life and thought in her friend. Her hands were lifted by the rise of Hermione's chest to breathe, as quick and breathy as it was. She lifted her gaze again, drawing back and considering the whole.

Hermione sat on her rumpled bed, lit by the morning sunlight. Worry creased her brow but her lips were parted slightly and there was colour high on her cheeks. Her eyes, those eyes! Fleur felt herself smiling as she stared into them, so relieved and so delighted to see her. She ran her fingers between her eyebrows, smoothing the crease from there. Hermione's eyes fluttered shut and she drew a shaking breath, which helped Fleur come back to her senses somewhat.

Taking a breath, she folded one of Hermione's hands in both of hers, running her thumbs over the back. Other pulses fluttered here and there, the brunette witch's hands warm and soft.

"Fleur," she said, softly, "what happened?" she asked, opening her eyes again. She frowned, but laid her free hand over Fleur's.

"I had a nightmare," she said, shaking her head. "One which was particularly unpleasant."

Hermione turned her eyes from Fleur's gaze, shaking her head slightly. "I don't think it was simply a nightmare. I couldn't wake you at all. You were completely out of it, Fleur."

Fleur felt her relief and joy slip a bit. She was confused by the news. She was usually a light sleeper and easy to wake. Obviously, the nightmare had gripped her tightly indeed. "No, just a dream. And it is over!"

Hermione brought her eyes back to hers, the query evident. Fleur shook her head though, unwilling to revisit the memories. "It is gone, now. No more. I will give it no further thought."

She did not appear satisfied though. "You were calling my name," she said, a challenge clear in the statement.

Fleur sighed and slumped slightly. "I imagine I was. It was an unpleasant thing, I can assure you. I called to you because though you were there, I could not reach you," she said, sadly. "But you still came to me. Thank you."

Fondly, she wrapped a strand of hair behind Hermione's ear, watching that familiar blush rise again. The bright day light brought out the highlights in her hair, the tawny ends curling every which way. Her skin was pale and smooth, unblemished but for a couple of freckles scattered on her arms. Sitting there in her flannel pyjamas, perched slightly awkwardly on the side of her bed, she seemed more beautiful than any other woman Fleur had ever seen. Her brow was dark and even, locks of hair falling over the crown of her head as she ducked, self-conscious under Fleur's eyes.

But brave too, and curious. She squeezed Fleur's fingers before releasing them to fiddle with the bed spread. "You're welcome. Are you all right now? Shall I go fetch you a mug of tea?"

Fleur nodded, regretfully allowing the change of subject. "If you put the kettle on, I'll follow you down."

Hermione didn't move, evidently deep in thought. She scowled, then shook her head. "I hate not knowing what's happening. I hate that I just feel so, so bloody useless all the time. I mean, I just… I just wish I could help you," she said, frustration clear. "I wish you weren't having nightmares about me."

"Not about you," Fleur corrected, quietly. "About other evils."

"Evils that we may well end up bringing down on your heads," she said, reaching forward and lightly gripping Fleur's arm, just above the wrist. "Evils and secrets and… And every other bloody thing."

Fleur's chest clenched at that; at the nervous attempt to apologise and to reach out. "Bring them, then. We shall all stand against them."

Hermione's eyes shone with grief and guilt; worry and annoyance and curiosity and courage and so many emotions that it robbed Fleur's breath to see.

"I will stand with you," Fleur whispered, entranced. "If only…"

"If only things were different," Hermione finished. "I know. I wish…" she said, her gaze dropping to Fleur's chin.

Fleur couldn't bear to hear the rest and pressed her fingers to Hermione's lips, startling the other woman.

"I understand but please, don't say it. I want it with all my heart, Hermione. But we cannot always have what we want."

In time to come, she'd wonder what had possessed her to move forward as she did, pressing a kiss to Hermione's cheek. Her lips lingered there and her fingers stayed resting on Hermione's lips. Her eyes slid closed and she felt her wrist grasped gently as Hermione kissed her finger tips.

_It would be so easy…_

Hermione held her hand there for a long moment, her breath warm against the sensitive skin before she kissed her again and moved her hand away, pulling back slowly.

"No," she whispered, "we can't."

* * *

><p>Hermione stood facing Harry, her wand drawn and ready. His green eyes sparkled behind his glasses and he held Draco Malfoy's wand with confidence.<p>

"Go!" Ron shouted from the sidelines, sitting beside Dean and Luna. Harry moved first, casting a blinding jinx. Hermione dodged it easily but almost stumbled into an immobilising hex. She sent several quick blasts to the sand around Harry's feet, raising little whirling dervishes to spin around him. She side stepped, considering her next move.

Harry was difficult to beat because he had ridiculously fast reflexes. He didn't plan in advance, like Ron, or use esoteric spells like Luna and he certainly lacked the raw power that Bill could summon. But he could move quickly and react more rapidly than almost anyone else she knew.

Harry dispersed the whirlwinds and Hermione sent chains spinning towards him. He shattered each and every one before attempting to stun her. She decided to take a different approach and sent a flume of water to the ground beneath him. The sand liquefied and he was sent skidding backwards. Impressively, he maintained his footing and even managed to try and disarm her as he slid backwards.

She was about to try another approach when she heard a loud bang. She turned her back on Harry and faced the source of the noise, wand raised. Bill had his hands stuffed into his pockets and his pale face was grim in the morning light.

"Bill!" Ron called. "What did mum used to threaten to feed the twins to?"

"The hobgoblin who lived in the field beyond the orchard," he answered, loping forward.

"Was there really a hobgoblin in your field?" Luna asked, standing to greet Bill.

As he approached, Hermione saw that he appeared drawn and haggard. Black circles beneath his eyes drew all his usual humour and kindness, leaving him appearing very stern and dour indeed. He was pale too and shivering in the warm morning as though exhausted.

"Nah," Ron answered, "it was only an overgrown gnome."

Bill was not, as was his wont, engaging in the light banter. He was standing before Hermione, a sad and haunted set to his features. His pale blue eyes seemed almost colourless beneath the grey sky; hopeless and grieving. She felt herself flush, ashamed of what she was doing to him. She couldn't look at him for long, with that forlorn expression and turned to Harry, watching him dust himself off.

"You all right, Bill?" he asked, flicking mud off his jeans. "Where were you?"

"Out for a bit," he said, smiling weakly, "just running a quick errand, Harry. Why don't you lot take a break. I'll grab a cuppa and give you a bit of a practice for an hour or two, eh?"

"Sounds great," Ron said, enthusiastically. "Ace."

"Yeah. See you in a bit, so."

Hermione watched him walk slowly towards the cottage, weariness clear in every part of him.

_How much of that is due to you?_

She turned away and sat heavily beside Luna, turning her wand about in her hands. The blonde was weaving marram grass into little shapes, humming as she went. The boys joined them and they began discussing tactics and spells for defeating Bill. He was a skilled duellist, practiced and collected. Harry and herself had earned some lucky victories but he was difficult to beat.

The day was warm, though, and it was difficult to stay focused for long out in the bright sunlight. Eventually, Ron lay back, looking up at the clouds. Luna soon followed suit and they began discussing the shapes they found there.

Hermione sighed, idly levitating bits of grass and attempting to plait them as Luna had. She felt entirely off-balance and found herself almost desiring to be on the road again; to leave this confusing and hurtful situation and get back to the mission.

She lay back and closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine for a moment if she'd turned to Fleur that afternoon. What would it have been like to kiss her? To feel that softness on her lips, rather than her cheek? To have pressed close to her and tangled her hands in her hair? To have fallen into Fleur's unmade bed and…

_You do mean Bill and Fleur's, don't you?_

She rubbed her face. It was a good thing they were leaving because she was finding it harder to leave her decision to refuse Fleur's offer unexamined. What would she have done, had Fleur been single? Would she have immediately agreed? Would she have refused, given that she had feelings for the other woman that made the idea of only being together once wholly unpalatable?

Oddly, Fleur's withdrawal had made it seem all the more tempting and interesting an idea. It had shown her that this meant more to Fleur too, that _she_ meant more to Fleur. That the other woman respected her too much to be with her under false pretences. She couldn't imagine what secret Fleur protected and had no time to ponder it. Their last hours in Shell Cottage were speeding past and she found herself unwilling to try and unravel the mysteries of their hostess.

_Besides, what's the worst it could be?_

Hermione could think of a few things that would stop someone from agreeing to sex, but none that applied to their situation, except for Bill, of course. Was it some sort of veela thing? She knew that the veela were a society composed entirely of women and perhaps that had a bearing on the situation. Perhaps for them, being with a woman had some great significance, something not to be entered into blindly.

_Well, it's more likely to be something like that than the clap, anyway._

In truth, the whole situation didn't add up for her. There were chunks missing and she found herself not liking it one bit. What was the nature of the spell? What exactly was being sacrificed; the possibility of a future together? If it was possible to confer protection on someone merely by sleeping with them, why hadn't anyone else tried it? Given the mindset of many of her friends and school mates, she was sure that this would come up already if it was at all feasible.

Fleur confused her as well, which disheartened her greatly. She'd felt that she'd come to gain a certain level of understanding of her new host, an impression the previous twenty four hours had thoroughly discredited. She'd never realised just how vulnerable Fleur could be or what worries she bore behind her cheerful exterior. She was a much more complicated person than Hermione had ever expected.

She seemed to feel things so deeply and with utter disregard for the safety of her own heart. She offered herself unreservedly and wholeheartedly, making this reticence seemed entirely out of character. The grief it brought her seemed especially unfair, in that circumstance.

What it be like to be with someone like that? Who was so free with both their sorrow and their joy? Who shared themselves without a second thought? What would it be like to know Fleur after the war, when there would be no more need for secrets? When there were no more barriers between them? She felt a shiver run through her at the thought.

Her chances of seeing that lay between slim and none, she knew. Whatever happened, she was not likely to survive the coming battle. Her days were numbered and the figure was likely depressingly low. Their plan for the next day was, after all, incredibly dangerous.

The realisation came to her that she could well be experiencing the last full day of her life. That the night before her could be her final. The thought was incredibly saddening and she felt her heart clench. She laid a hand over her chest and opened her eyes.

The sky was incredible; blue and endless. Clouds drifted here and there but failed to hide the sun or impinge on the majesty of the vast heaven above them. Arching from the horizon to the sea, it dwarfed them on their little patch of sand. Birds wheeled above them, joyous on the wing as they caught currents of warm air and cried out. The air was warm and filled with the scent of the surf.

She rolled over onto her stomach and stood, suddenly wanting to enjoy the world around her without a discussion of Quidditch in the background. She told the others that she was going to stretch her legs and set off, heading to the corner of their protected island that she'd frequented least.

It was odd, she mused, how she craved solitude in what she knew could be the last moments of her life. How she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

_To be alone with myself, really. Whoever that may be._

She followed a path down the dunes, watching small birds take wing before her and flutter until she passed. Moving calmed her and she found her mind beginning to settle. As she went, she widened her stride and quickened her step, feeling her breath come more quickly.

_We've done all we can. We're following the only lead we have with the horcruxes. We can only hope that we're on the right track and that if, IF, we survive tomorrow, we'll gain a clue to the next._

_And I know that the chances aren't great. All I can hope for is that we'll keep Harry safe long enough for him to do what he must._

She was almost running by the time the barrier came into view, shimmering in the sunlight. It seemed delighted by the change in weather too and was not shy about letting it be known. She smiled sadly as she approached it. How much of what had happened between herself and Fleur could be blamed on the barrier, she mused wryly. There was something about gazing out over an edge that left one particularly reckless, she thought.

She turned and followed the barrier, enjoying the way the sun warmed her. The winter had been long and bitter and the spring unenthusiastic at best. It was nice to see the world finally making an effort at throwing off the cold and misery of winter. She soon met a low tree covered in white flowers, boughs moving languidly in the wind. The little white flowers were beautiful; crowning the slender branches and stems.

_May Blossom._

She moved forward and touched one of the delicate flowers gently. Something about the sight of them, and certain memories, tugged at her heart and she felt sadness well within her. She closed her eyes and listened to the wind, an odd and lonely peace settling around her.

* * *

><p>Fleur was bustling around the kitchen, preparing supplies for the three adventurers when Bill walked in through the door. He was pale and wan in the sunlight, his scars appearing especially ugly. Fleur set down what she was doing and rushed towards him, enveloping him in her arms. He clung to her, desperate and lost. She stroked his hair and hummed to him, trying to soothe his grief.<p>

"What happened?" she whispered, "is anyone hurt?"

_Is anyone dead?_

"No," he said, quietly. "Well, yeah. They are. But no one we know."

Fleur led him to the kitchen table and sat him down, worried by his obvious distress. It took a lot to shake Bill but never before had she seen him so perturbed. His hands shook as he removed his cloak and rubbed his tired face.

After a few silent moments, Fleur set a mug down before him. He took it gratefully and sipped quietly. She knew that there was no point in rushing him; he'd speak when he felt ready. She found that she didn't have to wait long for him to begin, his voice hollow in the sunny kitchen.

"When I was out the other day," he said, voice low and tremulous, "Kingsley tipped us off to an attack on some muggles in East Anglia. We went and checked it out, but we couldn't find anything. Last night, he was in Lupin's when he got this message, about them muggles. He couldn't go alone, so he sent for the rest of us. I went with him and Fred and Dad, just to see if there was anything we could do."

He swallowed thickly and stood. Fleur followed and wrapped her arms around him. He held her close, speaking into the air over her shoulder, voice low and flat, as though he was recounting a dream he couldn't quite remember.

"There wasn't, though. The couple and their two little boys were dead, for days likely. Killing curse. But the daughter… Saw her train card. She was fifteen. Called Laura," he said, taking a deep breath.

"She'd been cut and stabbed, like Hermione. Only worse. I mean, she was fucking cut to ribbons. Had words carved into her. Filth. Mudblood."

Fleur frowned. That didn't quite make sense. Bill was quiet and she turned her head, attempting to look up at him. "Mudblood? I thought you said she was a muggle."

"Yeah," Bill sighed. "She was. But she had this big mop, this glorious head of brown curls, Fleur. And she'd been so pretty. Would have grown up to be a stunner." She gripped his shoulders more tightly, hearing his voice grow hoarse.

"She'd been with her for days, Fleur. Fucking sticking her full of holes and healing her… Keeping her alive. There was just, there was blood everywhere. And she, all these little holes all over her."

Fleur felt tears well in her eyes, a lump forming in her throat.

"And mudblood carved into her, Fleur. On her chest and her belly. Letters four inches tall and so deep." He too a deep breath, struggling with the next part. "The worst of it is, she could have been Hermione's sister."

"Bill," she whispered, her throat tight. "I'm so sorry you had to see that."

He laughed without humour and nodded. "I am too, love."

He was quiet for a long moment. "I thought if they stayed here, it wouldn't matter what was going on out there. We could look after them. Keep an eye out, you know? But they're going and… And that's what will happen to Hermione if Lestrange gets her hands on her. Harry, he's dead the moment you-know-who gets him and Ron… Ron's got a big mouth. They'll either kill him right off or they'll keep him as a ransom. To ensure the good behaviour of all and sundry."

Fleur felt tears roll over her cheeks. How could they face such horrors, when they were so young? What kind of a world did they live in where this sort of thing was allowed to happen? Bill gripped her more firmly.

"So I hate your idea, Fleur. It scares me. It makes me feel like I'm on the edge of losing everything but… But Hermione can't end up like that. Keep her safe."

Squeezing her eyes shut, she gripped him as firmly as she could. "I will. But you're right," she said, sadly. "She doesn't know. What kind of person would I be, to lead her down a merry lie?"

"One who cares deeply for her and wants to offer her protection, in the only way you know how." He sighed. "How much does she know?"

"She knows that there are things about me that I cannot tell her. Without knowing these, she cannot decide one way or another."

"I see." He sighed deeply. "We've really dug ourselves into a hole, haven't we?"


	9. A Lily to the Heat

Dear Reader,

Well, here we go with the next chapter. Once again, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave a review. This one was quite challenging! And it's quite long too, definitely time for some tea/beer/mulled wine or something similar! Please bear the rating in mind, this one gets quite sweary in places.

* * *

><p>The afternoon that followed was hectic. Bill spent several hours putting Harry and the others through their paces, trying to polish their duelling skills as best they could. Fleur, meanwhile, gathered all the food she could find and enchanted it to last for some time to come. She smoked sausages for them and bought hard cheese from Redruth, as well as baking several loaves of brown bread. She washed and dried the last of their clothes and even sewed a couple of buttons back on.<p>

After returning from the beach, Bill had gone about repairing rips in his tent and had found a dozen bottles of beer dating from the summer after he finished Hogwarts. Himself and Dean had used them for a yeasty version of clay pigeon shooting. No one seemed keen to spend time alone or with their thoughts, the whole household apparently aware that they faced great sorrow in the near future.

Fleur herself was particularly busy and did not notice time passing nor the movement of those around her. It had become so natural, so normal, to have her home filled with people. Ron's low voice rumbled from the living room where he was speaking with Harry. Luna was humming softly to herself as she skipped out the back door. Dean was laughing in the garden, Griphook moving over the floor in his bedroom.

They had, she realised, formed a sort of family. They'd been thrown together by extraordinary events but their fondness and affection for each other had bonded them. Their willingness to help one another, in both mundane and truly remarkable ways, had thoroughly cemented these bonds. Now the time was upon them for part of that little family to leave and the thought brought almost unbearable grief to her.

Luna and Dean would stay for the foreseeable future; it was not safe for either of them to try and return to their families. But Hermione, Harry and Ron would be gone, bringing Griphook with them.

_Ah, if we are a family, then he is the horrible uncle!_

She gave a little laugh at the idea, her mind hopping onto the absurd notion rather than focus on the reality that soon, her friends would leave for unspeakable danger. That Hermione would leave for unspeakable danger.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to move away from the thought of Hermione. To banish the image of her soft eyes and tumbled hair. The scent of her skin and shampoo. The softness of her and the nascent surety of her touch.

Shaking her head, she turned her mind back to the task at hand. She stooped to remove the final couple of loaves of bread from the oven when the back door opened. The familiar tread brought joy and sorrow in equal measure. She sent the bread floating over to a wire rack to cool before she wrapped them. Taking a deep breath, she stood and turned to face Hermione.

There was something about the outdoors that suited Hermione, she mused. For someone who spent so much time surrounded by, and adoring, books and learning, being outside certainly enhanced her natural beauty. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind and exertion; her hair wild about her shoulders and brow. She had a small, nervous smile on her lips and Fleur felt herself respond in kind.

It was inescapable; Hermione made her happy. Despite the sorrow and worry, despite the threats their future held the very sight of the other witch never failed to fill her with simple joy. She seemed to feel the same way, standing before the kitchen door holding a bough in her hands. Delicate white flowers held a tinge of pink and their scent mingled with the aroma of baking. Fleur tipped her head to one side at the sight, curious.

Hermione blushed under her attention. "I was out walking and I saw this. When I was in primary school we used to make a May Altar. We'd find flowers and bring them in every morning for the whole month. I loved it, because everyone made a big effort and well, it was lovely."

Fleur nodded, leaning against the table. "May blossom for the altar?"

Hermione nodded, a slightly impish expression spreading across her face. "When you got me my wand, you called blackthorn May blossom."

"I did," Fleur confirmed, now a bit confused.

"Only, it isn't," Hermione said, offering the branch. "This is. It's hawthorn."

Fleur took the branch and examined it. "Right you are! But they do bear more than a passing resemblance to one another."

"Except blackthorn gets its flowers before its foliage, while it's the other way round with hawthorn," she said. Fleur wondered how Hermione had managed to restrain herself that evening, which seemed so long ago, and decided that she'd probably been distracted by the fact that she hand just received a new wand. She found herself delighted to be corrected, though, and by the confident manner in which Hermione had spoken.

"Well," Fleur mused, smiling fondly at the other witch, "now I know. Thank you. And thank you for this," she held up the branch, "I shall put it in water and have my own May altar."

Hermione smiled shyly. "It's not actually May yet, though. But I won't see you tomorrow so… Well, anyway. I saw it and I thought of you."

Fleur gazed at the flowers, their creamy petals streaked with palest pink. Their hearts were yellow, pollen beaded at the centre on delicate stamens. They crowded the end of the branch, an attractive and dense inflorescence.

Her breath caught in her throat. May. Tomorrow was the first of May; Beltaine.

Her head spun with the thought, with the implications, and she sat down in a chair, mind racing. Memories crowded her mind and she recalled boisterous festivities and enormous bonfires. Some part of her felt a shock too, the word Beltaine resonating strangely in her.

"Fleur?" Hermione asked, concern evident in her voice, "what's the matter?"

"I lost track of days. This is the eve of Beltaine, no?" She couldn't understand her reaction, why the knowledge affected her so. Was it because it reminded her so keenly of her family? Her beloved family whom she'd left so far away?

Hermione nodded, frowning. "It is. What of it?"

Fleur was quiet for a long time, adrift and lonesome. "It is the start of summer. When I was young, we used to light a bonfire on this night. Animals were driven through the smoke, or ridden through the flames. The following day, there'd be a festival with dancers and the children would decorate a tree with ribbons."

Hermione smiled. "It sounds lovely."

"It was," Fleur agreed. "It was my favourite time of year, because men were allowed to attend, which was uncommon with veela celebrations. So my entire family could enjoy it together."

Hermione was quiet for a moment before nodding. "It's a muggle bank holiday, too. The first Monday in May. My parents would always do something nice for me. We'd go to the park or a museum or something."

They shared the silence for a long while, both lost in contemplation. Fleur's heart clenched. How quickly time moved! How quickly winter faded and summer began. How short the years of childhood; of happiness and carefree days. How distant their homes were. How lonely this fugitive life now seemed, when confronted with such memories.

Hermione's face was saddened too, folded in her own remembrance. Fleur wondered, for the first time, about Hermione's parents. What kind of people could have produced such a remarkable daughter? They must have been very kind, she thought, and supportive of their child. How much did they know about the perils she faced? About the war she fought?

She was about to open her mouth to speak when Dean entered, smiling sheepishly. "Fleur, could you come out and help for a tic? We can't get the tent folded properly."

"Of course," she said, nodding at the young man. She handed the branch back to Hermione. "Will you put this in water, please?"

Hermione nodded, her dark eyes solemn and regretful. There was so much unsaid between them and no time left in which to speak. She smiled wistfully and looked down at the blossoms.

That image was one which, in future times, Fleur often recalled to her mind. Hermione sitting pale and melancholic in the sunshine, face bowed over the flowers.

_A May Queen._

* * *

><p>Hermione sat for a long time staring at the blossoms, unable to establish a firm hold on any of the thoughts running through her brain. They drifted by, nebulous and indistinct as if viewed through fog or smoke. She heaved a sigh before standing and lifting a vase. She held it between both hands and watched it fill with cool water. The sunlight shining through the window caught in it, rainbows dancing along the edges of the glass; fractured light caught in gentle motion.<p>

She sent the vase to rest on the dresser and lifted the bough, gently setting it in. She adjusted it until it sat in a way that pleased her and stood for a moment, regarding her arrangement. A noise from the door drew her attention and she turned. She saw Bill outside, kicking his shoes against the boot scraper.

She was frozen, her mind screeching to a complete halt at the sight of him. He still looked tired; wan and weary in the sunlight. He lifted his eyes and his gaze found her, surprise clearly written upon his face. His features quickly folded into a closed, wary expression as he straightened up. He opened the door quietly, still watching her carefully.

She found she couldn't look away, though she greatly wanted to. How could she she dare look him in the eye when she had almost kissed his wife this very morning? When her last thoughts before sleep imagined a life shared with Fleur? Ashamed, she felt her face pale and her mouth loll open. But her legs seemed cast in lead and she couldn't bring herself to move, though she desperately wished to.

"You know, I didn't think you were scared of me, Hermione," Bill said, entering the kitchen. She felt her face flush and she couldn't form a single word. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she found she could no longer meet his eyes, mortified and filled with guilt. Bill sighed and shook his head.

"Listen, I'm tired and weary. I can't keep track of the number of plots and plans being hatched in the house but I want you to know…" he flushed himself. "Um, well, Fleur told me. About her plan."

Hermione's racing heart slammed to a halt behind her ribs and utter disbelief filled her mind.

_You're joking. You're bloody-well joking! We're actually going to have this conversation._

Bill folded his arms, bowing his head. "I don't like it one bit, to be honest." He heaved a great sigh, from the bottom of his chest. "But do we have another choice?"

Hermione was gob-smacked. She was so surprised that she wondered if Fleur had told him the _actual_ plan or another, sanitised version.

"It doesn't matter," she said, frowning mightily. "I'm not doing it. I won't."

Bill sighed again, cocking his head to one side. He regarded her carefully for a long time before he spoke. "That's probably wise. But um, if you do change your mind..."

Hermione felt faint, as if the floor was buckling beneath her feet. Bill was examining his fingernails carefully, still flushed and scowling. Was he implying that she should follow Fleur's suggestion? He was extending an invitation to her? She stumbled over to a chair and sat down.

_He doesn't know. He wouldn't be saying this if he did._

Seeing her state, he turned to leave, obviously not comfortable discussing the ins and outs of his wife's premeditated infidelity. He paused at the door and turned back. "I won't do anything as bloody condescending as give my permission but, you know… You're both adults, aren't you? This is between you and her."

He lifted his face to look at her, tears in his kind blue eyes. He looked old then, the scars on his face more disfiguring than normal. How odd, that he should look so wretched when he was at his most noble. He sounded so lonely, though, lonesome and despairing. He moved through the kitchen, reaching out one hand for the handle of the door that led into the corridor.

"I'm a bit jealous, you know," he said, quietly. "And I think it's madness but… If you care for her… Well, it's not like the world isn't on the brink of ending. If you love her, don't let this pass by."

He spoke with such a deep, aching sorrow and raw grief that Hermione felt tears well in her eyes. How could he even bring himself to think about the subject, let alone speak to her about it? She wiped her face with shaking hands, feeling the heat there.

"Bill," she said, quietly. "She told me we can't, anyway."

"Yeah, she said that to me too." He drew a deep breath. "I know what secret she's protecting, Hermione. She made a rash promise when she was young and stupid to another young and stupid person." He swallowed thickly. "She'll not like me saying this, but you know..."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You? You're the one…"

"Yeah," he said. "But it isn't just me, you know. You don't understand what could happen, how many lives would be in danger. Hermione, I know that it would fix things to just come out and tell you but you have no idea! And given what you're planning, you're the last one who should know, other than perhaps Harry."

He released the door handle, pacing the kitchen, frustration clear. Baffled, Hermione turned in the chair, watching him go.

"This is life and death," he said, voice low and harsh. "And I wish I could, I really do, but…"

"Stop," Hermione said, quietly. "It's all right, Bill. Please, forget about it. It doesn't matter."

He leaned on the dresser, his broad back to her. He seemed to be examining the flowers and it was a long time before he spoke again.

"You have to stay away from Bellatrix Lestrange," he said, quietly. "Avoid her at all costs. Don't cross her path."

Hermione's mouth went dry and she felt fear travel down her spine. Avoid Lestrange? She was to _become_ her in a matter of hours! Her fear galvanised her and she stood, clenching her hands tightly.

"Bill, I'm sorry. I never meant for it… I, I couldn't help it. And we never… We didn't…" She bit back a sob and pressed her hand to her mouth. "And we won't. I mean, it's ridiculous, anyway! It's mental…"

Bill sighed but did not turn around. "It's all right, Hermione. You can't help who you fall for. Who you love."

They were silent then, the long moments agonising as they both stood engulfed in sorrow, frustration and misery. Hermione wept, muffling her sobs into her hands. It was too much; it was utterly overwhelming. She moved, staggering towards the back door on unsteady feet. She fumbled with the knob, swiping at her eyes as she went.

"Hermione," Bill said, voice soft and hoarse, "it's not your fault. And it wasn't fair of Fleur to ask you, when you don't know what you'd be agreeing to. When you don't know her."

He was silent for a long time and she waited for him to speak.

"I've known her for a long time though," he said, softly. "And her heart's in the right place. She just wants to help you but we're stuck and it's shite. Pure and utter shite. I mean, I never expected to find myself having a bloody conversation like this, let me tell you."

"Bill, please," she said again. "It's not going to happen."

"But perhaps it should," he said quietly. "It's the only thing that I can think of to keep you safe. Maybe you should but… When you don't, _can't_, know, how can you agree?"

Hermione felt shaky, her hands trembling with adrenaline and fear. When she spoke, she surprised herself. The words had come from nowhere, yet seemed to have taken form in the very deepest part of her. She rarely spoke to freely, with such little consideration but she couldn't help herself.

"I don't know her, but you do."

Bill's shoulders tensed as she spoke, as if he knew what she was going to say. He took a breath and she saw his hand tense into a tight fist. "You want to know the answer to the question; _if I were you, would I_?"

Bill turned to face her, lifting his eyes to meet her own. Tears had left wet tracks on his cheeks. His face was blotchy and he looked utterly finished; exhausted and defeated. Her heart broke again, seeing the results of her actions. He frowned then, considering her words carefully for a moment.

"Do you love her?" he asked, softly.

"I don't know," Hermione replied, after a long moment. Honesty was the only course left for her, in the midst of all this uncertainty. At the end of the world, there was no room for deceit. "I really don't."

"But you care for her, a lot."

She nodded and he sighed. He closed his eyes briefly and then turned to look at her, a sad smile tugging one corner of his mouth up. His expression was odd and Hermione had no idea what to make of it at all. Unfathomable, his blue eyes flat as the summer sky, his face still and holding no hint of anger or rage. But written into every crease and every scar was suffocating sorrow. He drew himself to his full height, moving his shoulders backwards before allowing a small trace of droll humour to cross his face.

"You know, I think I would."

* * *

><p>Hermione sighed, running her hand through her hair in an aggravated swipe. For the second time that day, she'd felt the need to escape the confines of Shell Cottage. Besides the utterly excruciating conversation she'd had with Bill, it was too busy in the little house, too manic. Her heart was too sick to pretend that there wasn't something wrong right now. Everyone was aware of it, though Harry and Ron seemed to think it was due to her reluctance to take on the mantle and wand of Bellatrix Lestrange.<p>

That was, admittedly, absolutely true. The thought of looking in the mirror and seeing those hateful, sly eyes meeting her gaze terrified her, bringing awful memories to the surface of her mind. She remembered how jagged fingernails had clawed her, gripping her in anger and fear. She remembered the weight of her on her chest, suffocating and overwhelming. She remembered feeling so pathetic and useless; so weak as she lay there sobbing in pain and panic.

It made her angry to recall that time, ashamed at the reminder of her cowardice. She never wanted to feel like that again. She'd die before she let herself be reduced to a trembling heap again.

Her anger was hot and fierce, burning away the last of the guilt she felt over the memories. Yes, she was ashamed at herself for behaving so meekly but she had come to realise that it hadn't been her fault. She wasn't to blame, she knew. After all, who _wouldn't_ be reduced to tears while being stabbed and tortured? It had taken time to come to this conclusion and a certain amount of self-pity and brooding.

She'd survived and had a job to do. Knowing what she'd escaped, she knew what awaited her if they failed. Her talk with Bill had only cemented the notion, whatever knowledge he had discovered regarding the malicious witch. If Lestrange ever caught her again, she'd suffer horribly. So the only way forward, she reasoned, was to not get caught.

Easier said than done, she readily admitted. Eventually, they'd have to stand against Voldemort and he was not likely to face them alone. She'd fight toe to toe against Bellatrix and the only option was victory.

_Or death in battle._

She sighed. That was another viable plan and the more likely outcome of a confrontation with the cruel woman. They faced such a hopeless future that it seemed almost foolish to try, to make any effort.

She'd found herself at the end of hope; battered and bruised and wondering why she was even doing this, exerting such effort. She'd stood on the edge and felt despair. She'd even articulated it to Luna. But having been there and seeing the hopeless abyss beyond their foolish optimism, she knew what she had to do.

She'd known utter despair but rejected it. _Yes, the abyss awaits but we're not ready for it yet._

She'd walked to the edge, peered over and walked back. She felt different, firmer and sterner. There had been a price to pay, though. Happiness now seemed largely impossible but for moments snatched with Fleur, which seemed like half-remembered dreams. She lamented their loss but knew that they'd serve to draw her from the difficult path she had to walk.

And how she wanted to stray! How she wanted to sink into Fleur's arms and see what could be found there. She wanted to take the pleasure offered, to kiss those lips and drink those laughs and sighs.

She could face it fully now, after that talk with Bill. She'd never had a more awkward or dreadful conversation in her life and it had left her feeling like a wrung-out rag. But it had been almost liberating to talk with someone about the whole situation. It felt better to have the whole situation out in the open too, less illicit.

_And he practically handed you a gilded invitation. What are you waiting for?_

She scolded herself for her traitorous thoughts. The fact of the matter was that his reluctant endorsement didn't really change anything. It was still cheating, still wrong on many different levels.

Wrong and mercenary. What kind of person was she that she could even contemplate using such an intimate moment as nothing more than payment for protection? Was her life really so precious, so valuable, that it was worth Fleur ruining her marriage?

_It's not. I'm not._

But there was another side to her, one which craved Fleur; her warmth and affection. One which wanted nothing more than to indulge this passion and damn the consequences. One that dreamt of Fleur. One that left her unable to ignore her or the feelings she elicited. One that ached to press close to her and lose herself. To forget the misery around them and claim some happiness.

_Why not? Why shouldn't I?_

Because it was selfish. Because it would harm a good man. Because it would break rules that she'd followed her entire life. Because it seemed like a cheap excuse, a tenuous justification for something she wanted. Because she didn't really know what she was agreeing to.

Her desires, her needs, were not important in the grand scheme of things. When had they ever been? She rubbed her face and shook her head. She'd never been someone possessed by great passion or a brave heart. She'd never put her head above the emotional parapet so why start now? Why begin something she could never hope to continue?

She couldn't see the sea from where she stood. She was surrounded by gently undulating sand dunes. Field fares rose above the fresh green tips of the grass, floating effortlessly on the currents of air. The evening breeze was warm beneath the reddening sky. The sun was low behind wisps of cloud, a handsome backdrop for wheeling gulls.

The beauty around her was simple and understated. There was no breathtaking panorama or awe-inspiring view. There was nothing remarkable about the part of the world she found herself in but she'd never seen anything so beautiful. In the fading light of what she imagined would be her final day, she regretted the life she was leaving behind.

There was a shining path, a bright and easy trail before her. It was lit with happiness and joy; with the faces of her friends and family. But there was a second path before her, one dark and overgrown. She knew what faced her and what she had to do. Her way forward did not lie in golden light.

Birds called in the fading light and she felt tears well. She turned and walked back towards the cottage through the gloaming.

_Let life go on,_ she thought. _Let this world continue its great cycle. Let the wheel of time keep turning._

* * *

><p>That evening they ate heartily and drank a couple of bottles of wine. Luna, in her odd way, doubtless knew exactly what was going on but was polite enough to say nothing. Bill and herself fed them all well and Harry, Hermione and Ron headed to bed early, discretely thanking their hosts.<p>

Hermione had shyly taken her hand and squeezed her fingers. Her dark eyes had been brimming with tears and sorrow, the young witch unable to express herself or find time to articulate her feelings. Fleur had understood, though, and gripped her hand tightly.

There was so much she wanted to say but there simply wasn't the time. So she'd pressed Hermione's warm fingers and smiled at her, trying to say with her eyes what words could not convey. Such sorrow! Such despair! How she'd longed to embrace her and chase those shadows away but their time had passed. Their opportunity had fled.

What else was there to do anyway, but wish her well?

Fleur found herself in the parlour again, not eager to retire to bed. She heard a sound in the hall and turned, a tiny flash of hope flaring in her chest. Could Hermione have decided… Instead, Harry stood in the doorway, a volume of Lily's diary in his hand.

"Hello Harry," she said, fondly, glad to see the young man despite her disappointment. "We will not be seeing you in the morning."

"No," he agreed. He placed the book on the bookshelf with the others and sighed. "Will you look after them, Fleur?"

"Until you come to collect them, yes," she said, feeling great compassion for her friend. "Whenever that may be."

"Thanks," he said, with a weak smile. He sat in the other chair and gazed into the fire for a moment. "They didn't do me much good. I didn't understand most of what she was talking about, to be honest." He was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "What do you think is the one thing she would have wanted me to know?"

"That you are loved, Harry," she said, gently. "I know! You wished for a different type of answer but that is the only one that counts. You are loved by many people. Some of these have left the world, sadly. Some of them are far away. But some are by your side, my friend. What of Ron, Hermione, Luna and Dean? Your friends in school? The Weasleys? The other members of the Order? Bill and I? We all love you."

His eyes shone and he blinked, turning away. Fleur looked into the fire, providing him a bit of privacy. "This is true. And I believe you hold in your heart a great amount of love for your friends, though perhaps this is not something that men your age admit to openly. That is what she would have wanted you to know. That you are a good and noble man with a heart open to love who is in turn loved by many. The enemy doesn't understand this and cannot defend against it."

Harry was quiet for a long moment. "Dumbledore believed that too, but he's dead. He left me so much to do and I just don't have a clue. I don't know if I can do it."

Fleur stood and knelt before him, taking his hands. He had suffered so much and carried such a heavy burden, she thought. "Harry, listen to me. You are the only one who can do it. Is this an unfair burden for you? Of course! No one person should have to face this. But there is not a speck of doubt in my heart that you _will_ do it."

He smiled weakly again, shaking his head. "I don't know why you do, or anyone does for that matter. But I will do it. I have to."

They were silent for a moment before Harry spoke again. "I don't know how long it'll take, though. It's the only hope we have but… It could take a long time and things might get even worse for everyone, especially the Weasleys."

Fleur noted his blush and smiled. "I know. I will keep an eye on Ginny."

"Thank you," he said, quietly. "And just, tell her that I'm sorry I couldn't take her. I just couldn't stand the thought of her getting hurt. It's a crap excuse, I know. It's not like she isn't better than me at most offensive spells but I just can't stand the idea of her…" he choked. "It's bad enough with Hermione and Ron! It's enough I've had to drag them in to help me! Not her, too."

His eyes shone and Fleur leaned forward, nodding solemnly.

"Go, do what you need to do. I will keep an eye on her and when all the dust is settled and the battles are over, you'll never have to leave her behind again."

* * *

><p>Hermione found herself standing in a warm and bright room. Gulls cried outside the windows and waves hissed over a nearby shore. She closed her eyes, confused and slightly disorientated. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself standing beside an unmade bed in an airy room. Four large windows set on two walls allowed light to stream in, fitful through swaying curtains half drawn. One window was opened and she could see a tree in bloom beyond it, white flowers covering its branches. A magpie clattered and a dog barked.<p>

She closed her eyes, content to sleep within this dream, but a soft whimper drew her attention. Some small noise from the foot of the bed compelled her interest, in that half intended way dreams have. She saw a basket sitting on a frame at the foot of the bed and walked cautiously towards it.

There was an infant within and it looked very young. It was waving its arms and making unhappy noises, eyes screwed tightly shut. Hermione drew back the white blanket and freed its kicking legs, carefully lifting it to nestle against her chest. It was so young that it immediately rolled against her, curling into a little ball on her shoulder. One of her hands covered its little back almost entirely.

_This is certainly a dream,_ she mused, _because I'm quite sure I have no idea how to do this in reality._

The thought seemed dreadfully intrusive in this peaceful place and she banished it, wandering back to sit on the bed, watching the little creature in her arms with astonished eyes. It was wearing a white babygro with a little duckling on the chest. A yellow knitted hat sat on its head, tucked over its tiny ears. It turned against her, rooting at her chest and she laughed in surprise.

"I see someone's hungry," came an amused voice from the doorway. Hermione started, earning a wail and a small smack as the baby jerked in surprise, and looked up to see Fleur standing in the doorway. She was clad in a blue dressing gown and a child was leaning at her hip. The girl was wearing colourful pyjamas and had her head tucked fondly against Fleur. The resemblance was uncanny. Silvery blonde hair, almost white, hung in twin pigtails. The child pushed off Fleur and ran to the bedside.

"Is she awake?" the little girl asked, her English accent seeming very odd. She clambered into the bed and nestled against Hermione's right side, gazing at the little baby's red face with awe. "She's tiny!"

"She'll get bigger," Fleur assured her, climbing in behind her and fondly smoothing her hair. "You were smaller, believe it or not."

The child began to protest and the infant opened her eyes, scowling in annoyance. Bright, though unfocused, eyes tried to make sense of the world around her. Evidently, they failed and she gave a cry. Hermione felt her chest lurch; those eyes were the same as the child and the woman in the bed beside her. She snapped her head around to face Fleur and found herself staring, dumbstruck and frozen, into eyes like gemstones.

She woke panting for air, with tears streaming down her face and sweat rolling down her spine.

_This will never come to pass_, she thought, _Fleur's children won't be born in a world where Voldemort rules._

She knew it with an absolute certainty. She turned to glance at Luna, ensuring she hadn't woken the girl.

_Luna's either. Or Harry's. Ginny's. Teddy won't survive._

The importance of their mission was well enough known to her. If they failed, all decent folk would lose everything they had, up to and including their lives. Evil and wicked people would enslave and torment muggles, who would fight back. The world would burn and there'd be no peace, no ease or comfort. There'd be no goodness. She had known, always, that some abstract future generation was reliant on their success but they had never before seemed so real. She could still feel the infant's warm weight in her arms, the easy affection of Fleur's daughter at her elbow. They were more real to her than those who had died already; those ghosts who, if you believed what you were told, cried constantly for vengeance.

She buried her face in her hands and knew, with utter conviction, that there was no option but victory. The dead were gone and very unlikely to collect outstanding debts but life needed to continue. Those to come deserved the best possible world, not one of ash and ruin.

The weight of their mission had never before felt so heavy on her shoulders. Failure was not an option. Everyone she knew, magical and muggle, depended on their success.

She knew, then, within her heart what had to be done.

* * *

><p>Hermione made her way downstairs, desperate for a glass of water. She still felt the unsettling effects of the wine and the dream keenly, her heart beating harshly beneath her ribs. She tried to shake both off, willing her hands to become still and steady as they fluttered over her pyjamas. She passed the living room, filled with its peaceful dreamers, and entered the empty kitchen. The clock read almost two in the morning as it ticked mournfully in the gloom. She collected her glass of water and went to return upstairs. She noticed a sliver of light beneath the parlour door and decided to investigate. Perhaps Harry was still awake, she told herself, knowing it to be deceit even as the thought flittered through her mind.<p>

She found, and was not terribly surprised to find, Fleur curled into an armchair reading Lily's diary. A glass of wine sat beside her, catching the light of the dying fire. She turned at the sound of the door opening and her face took on an odd expression in the dim light. She was lost in the folds of a dark jumper, her pale hair and gleaming eyes shocking above it. She looked so strange then, ancient and inhuman. Her eyes were knowing but not mocking; calm but firm.

The thought came to her that Bill had mentioned love. Did she love Fleur? She hadn't a clue. She didn't know what love actually was, not this kind. But she _liked_ Fleur, was attracted to her and longed for her. In the lives they had, there probably wasn't enough time for proper love but she wanted to get as close as she could. She knew there was so much she didn't understand and likely never would, a sad notion. But in that moment, how she ached for the softness and warmth of Fleur's skin above all else.

"Hermione," Fleur breathed, setting the diary aside. "Are you all right?"

"Couldn't sleep," she said, nervous and unsure. Was this the much lauded art of seduction, she wondered. She must have been doing something right, she mused, for Fleur's nostrils flared, her gaze unwavering and taut with intensity.

"I cannot either," Fleur murmured. She stood and walked to Hermione, seeming to glide over the floor. She was so graceful, so elegant. She came to a stop before the other woman and gazed curiously, carefully, at her. There was only one possible reason, Hermione knew, for her presence. Excitement flared at the corners of Fleur's eyes and mouth, her breathing audible in the quiet room

"I spoke to Bill earlier," she said, quietly. Fleur's face lit with surprise.

"What did he say?" she asked, folding her arms.

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "A lot of things. The general idea was that this," she could tell that Fleur knew precisely what she meant, "that this is between us. That we should try the spell."

Fleur nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer, though sadness was clear on her face too. "He is a good man."

Hermione agreed wholeheartedly. "This will hurt him, if we..."

Fleur sighed, rubbing her forehead. "In many ways, the damage is done. But he is right. This is between you and I now. He knows what is happening and chose to stand aside. Tell me, why did you come down here tonight?"

Fleur's eyes seemed to burn, catching the light from the fire. Hermione swallowed thickly, feeling her heart begin to speed its pace. Her palms felt slick with sweat as she stood before the other witch.

That fire called to something within her but Hermione didn't know how to respond. She felt stupid and awkward but trembled with the desire to just _do_ something. To act rather than sit and plan. To feel, to touch and to lose herself. To once again sink into Fleur's arms and take the comfort she knew awaited. She had no idea what to really expect but she craved it; this unknown pleasure.

"Please," she whispered, stepping forward and setting her hands on Fleur's shoulders, "I, I think we should…"

Fleur set her hands on Hermione's waist, holding her gently and moving closer. She lowered her face and touched their foreheads together. "Are you sure?" she breathed, her warm breath tickling Hermione's mouth.

"Kiss me," Hermione said, squeezing her eyes shut; gulping, terrified that she'd lose her nerve. Fleur left her no chance, pressing soft lips to her mouth. Hermione's skin felt as if it were lit from within, burning at Fleur's touch. Her fingers flew open, shocked at the sensation and she almost drew away in reflex. But Fleur's sighs fell between her lips and she pressed forward again, gripping her shoulders and standing on tiptoe. She was drawn deeper, their mouths opening to each other and she felt a jolt at this new connection, this new taste. Fleur led her, guiding her and inspiring her. Reaching into the darkest parts of her and chasing away shadows. Reaching into forgotten and ignored parts of her and waking them.

Hermione felt Fleur moan into her mouth, gasping for for air and nipping at her lip. Her chest felt full of electricity and fire; her breasts tingled and she was aching between her legs. How was this possible, she wondered, so quickly? Fleur drew back, her breathing ragged. When Hermione's eyes opened, Fleur was staring at her, colour high on her cheeks and her lips plump and glossy. Her eyes were glowing in the fire light, dark and tumultuous despite their iron resolve. Hermione was shocked to see tears rolling over her high cheeks, spilling over her chin.

"Fleur?" she asked, carefully wiping Fleur's cheek. "What's wrong?"

The blonde's face was folded in anguish. It seemed that her earlier composure had cracked, the demands too much in such a fragile, nervous moment. "Oh, Hermione… I, I don't…"

Hermione frowned, worried. "Are you having second thoughts?" she asked, gently, disappointment sour in her mouth.

"Third, fourth, fifth thoughts too!" she joked, shaking her head. "I wish we had more time. I wish we knew one another. Hermione," she said, eyes filled with sorrow, "there is so much I would have you know but I don't know where to begin."

She stepped forward, lifting her free hand to Fleur's face. "I wish for the same thing, Fleur. But there isn't any time," she said. "I understand if you don't want to, it's all right."

Fleur was quiet for a long moment, her eyes uncharacteristically nervous. "If you knew me, you would not look upon me with such fondness."

"Probably not!" Hermione agreed, with a wry smile. "I know that I don't know you. And we won't have the chance… But I have a suspicion that if I did, I'd be more than fond of you. Besides, I'm not exactly the most pleasant person in the world sometimes."

"Please, do not speak of yourself so," Fleur murmured. They stood in silence for a long moment before Fleur swallowed thickly, gazing at her with serious eyes. "What do you truly want, Hermione?"

She took a moment to think about that before answering. "I don't know. Or rather, all the things I want are so far beyond my grasp I can't even remember what they are."

Fleur kissed her forehead, remaining there, her mouth hot on Hermione's skin. "I want this. I want you. I just… There's so much!"

Hermione took that in for a moment. So much to tell her? So much potential for damage? She wasn't sure but she did know that she wanted Fleur. She didn't want to die and she certainly didn't want to die after letting an opportunity like this pass her by.

So she pressed her lips to Fleur's. "I want you too. I know that there'll be consequences, if we survive, heartache and a great gnashing of teeth but… Please. Just tonight. One night."

Fleur's grip on her tightened convulsively. "You don't understand what you are doing. To what you agree."

Hermione frowned. "Is it dreadful to say that I don't care? That I've spent enough time around you and I don't think you'd hurt me intentionally?" She smoothed her thumbs of Fleur's cheeks. "Besides, I feel as if I understand you. As if I trust you."

"You do?"

She met her eyes, feeling more sure now. She still didn't know if what she was doing was the right thing but it didn't feel wrong. It felt like the most natural thing in the world; something that had been waiting for her to claim. She felt as if a flood gate within her had opened and everything suddenly seemed so clear to her. Words spilled from her, truths that she'd been denying or ignoring up until now.

"Yes. And it's strange, because my track record isn't very good. In fact, it sometimes seems like it's been rotten. But with you, I just, I don't know how to describe it… It's as if the bits of me that are analytical and logical get passed by. I can't fathom you but for the first time I just feel as if I understand you, intuitively. That's never happened to me before."

"What do you mean?" Fleur asked, hanging on her every word. She'd never been at the receiving end of such intense attention and she found it exhilarating.

"Intuition, I mean, it's lazy, isn't it? Hanging onto the first thing your mind throws up without thinking about it, without going over it. It's a sloppy way to think. But," she drew a breath and smiled at Fleur, "sometimes, it's worth it."

"You shouldn't trust me," Fleur said, shaking her head. "Please do not."

"Why not?" she asked, frowning. "You make it sound as if you're a horrible person but you're not! Remember, you've helped me. You've healed me," she took a deep breath. "I've felt your magic all around me and it's _good_. I can't tell you how I know but I don't care! I can feel it, Fleur. I can feel you."

Fleur shook her head miserably and Hermione, feeling quite frustrated, leaned forward and held her face, earning an owlish expression of shock. "Now listen to me. I know that there are things I don't know, can't know. And that's fine. I can live with that. But there are things I do know and I know that you're a good person. You're someone I'm pleased to have in my life.

"And I wish, I wish we could do this properly, because I don't think I've ever felt this way about someone. Scratch that, I've never. But we can't and we just have to move along, Fleur. But you have to believe me. Please."

Fleur's eyes spilled tears as Hermione spoke, rolling over her high cheeks and falling off the line of her jaw. "I feel as though, all I've done is… I was the one to look after you and… After all you went through…"

"You were the first bit of kindness I knew?" Hermione said, quietly. "Yes, I know. That's fine, though. I mean, I've not been my best but Fleur, I've been me. Just a slightly rumpled version. I didn't leave my ability to judge people in Malfoy Manor, after all."

Fleur's eyes slid shut, tears rolling down her cheeks once more. "Bill thinks I am taking advantage of you. Or, at least, attempting to. That you were vulnerable when you came here and I am reaping the benefits. I think he perhaps has a point."

"That presumes I don't know myself very well, doesn't it?"

"Does anyone?" Fleur asked, her voice soft.

Hermione touched her face, resting her fingers over Fleur's damp cheek. "I _know_ that I don't know everything but at this stage, I don't care," she whispered. "I don't care. I just, I just don't want to die without knowing what this is, this thing between us."

"Hermione," Fleur breathed, her hands cupping her face. "You will not die."

"I very well might die," she argued. "And so be it."

Fleur opened her bright eyes, gazing solemnly at her. She was quiet for a long time, evidently considering her response. Hermione laid a hand on hers, running her thumb over the back of her knuckles. Fleur's eyes met her own; shining in the dim light.

Inscrutable but filled with desire. Her lips still held the swelling their kisses had generated. Her touch was close but not intimate. Her gaze locked with Fleur's and she pressed forward, dropping a kiss to those enticing lips.

"Are you sure?" Fleur gasped between kisses, her hands trembling as they pressed together.

_Yes,_ Hermione thought, reckless and exhilarated. _I want this. I may never have another moment like this._

"I am," she sighed, pulling back slightly, "and I know there's lots of problems but I don't care. I trust you, Fleur. I trust that you wouldn't set out to harm me."

"Never," Fleur confirmed, pressing towards her. "But why?"

Hermione sighed, wondering the same herself. She didn't have an answer, though, and doubted one would be forthcoming. But the spirit of Gryffindor was strong and Hermione lifted her face.

"Because I've never felt this way about someone. I don't care about the spell or the protection, honestly I don't. But I care about you and…"

Their eyes held one another's gaze for a long time. Hermione reached out to put her hands on her friend's shoulders, her touch growing surer. Fleur's eyes were dark beneath her frown though she still leaned forward to peck her on the cheek. Something softened in her as she drew back and excitement played around her sparkling eyes.

"Come, we must go," she panted, flushed and shaky. "Follow me."

Fleur lifted heavy coats from the stand and they slid into their shoes. She lifted two thick blankets and tossed them over her shoulder. She pocketed a phial of dark potion and drew her wand. Hermione, entranced, followed her out into the night. Once they had shut the door, Fleur turned and took her hand, still gentle despite their urgency.

Only a sliver of the moon hung in the sky so the stars shone undimmed, for once unveiled by cloud or mist. They blazed in the cold heavens above them, imperious, distant and completely unconcerned with the two tiny beings that ran over sand beneath them. As they ran, Hermione tipped her head upwards and felt as if she was seeing the sky for the first time. The constellations appeared newly set; a configuration for them alone on this lonely night. From the corner of her eye, she saw stars fall and looked back to Fleur, her shimmering hair flying loose behind her.

She took them over the damp sand to the cove where they'd spoken so recently, though it felt as if a lifetime had passed to Hermione, and laid the blanket near the rock. She set wards, a strong and impenetrable dome, over them. She was still for a moment, apparently gathering her wits as she knelt on the ground. She took a deep breath and her spine straightened.

She then stood and turned to Hermione, her eyes gentle and sorrowful with all that was unsaid between them. If only, she thought, they'd had more time. Reverently, Fleur lifted her long-fingered hands, smoothing unruly hair from Hermione's brow before she took her face in her hands, cradling it as one would something precious and fragile. "Are you still sure, my darling one?"

"Yes, I am," she replied, resolute now that a course had been chosen. Perhaps she'd regret this, in later life. Perhaps she'd regret it in the morning. For now, she let herself be led to sit on the blanket and took the opportunity to languidly kiss Fleur, drinking in her moans and sighs with no fear of discovery. She was intoxicated, overwhelmed by the scent and taste of her, driven by the impulse to discover all that lay between them. She opened her eyes and saw Fleur's face, indistinct but anguished. She lifted a hand and carefully touched her lover's cheek, unsure fingers stuttering over her jaw and ear.

With an urgent hiss, Fleur parted from her and rose. She shed her coat and began drawing a circle in the sand with her wand, speaking in a strange language. Once again, that grim and ancient magic curled around them, binding them together beneath the stars. The air hummed and crackled with it, drowning out the roar of the nearby ocean. Familiar now as the back of her eyelids, Hermione let her head loll to her shoulder, basking in the power around her.

"Hermione," Fleur asked softly, "your little flames, perhaps?" Her lips were curled upwards in an impish smile as she indicated points just outside the circle, seven in total. Hermione sent purple flames to them, smiling back, charmed by the thought that Fleur found the colour so pleasing. The little flames burned hotly but shed little light, swiftly heating the circle and those within it. Fleur knelt and kissed her again, pressing her back into the blanket and shifting sand. She was careful to never set herself fully over Hermione, the brunette noticed, and she felt herself fill with affection and fondness for the other witch.

The flames and their passion warmed the area and after a while Fleur drew back, stripping off her jumper and pyjamas. Her motions were jerky and slightly clumsy, though not as a result of nervousness or bashfulness. Her eyes never left Hermione's and she seemed utterly unconcerned about baring herself.

She soon stood nude and wore no jewellery save a small moonstone on a short silver chain around her neck. The little flames and starlight lit her, indistinct and hazy against the night sky. Hermione drank in the sight of her, mesmerised. She'd seen women naked before, of course (it was damn near impossible to persuade Lavender Brown to wear a dressing gown, half the time). But she'd never seen anyone like Fleur. She moved as she always did, no self-consciousness hampering her as she knelt before her. It was as if her entire consciousness was directed at her, Hermione thought, leaving none for herself. She felt humbled beneath the intense attention but beautiful too; desirable and powerful.

Fleur inched forward, her limbs taut with rigidly muzzled desire. As though in a trance, bewitched, she laid a hand on Hermione's throat, feeling the pulse there before sliding it down the centre of her chest, fingertips lightly resting on her stomach. "If you wish to stop, tell me now," she said, rubbing Hermione's belly softly. "I am about to begin the spell." Hermione shook her head, eyes aching in the dim light and fragrant smoke. She had passed the point of admission, finally laying bare to herself that yes, she did want this. That she would do whatever she could to achieve it.

"Now, I ask if you trust me," Fleur asked, her voice breathy and tremulous, her desire plain to the ear. "I am Fleur Isabelle Delacour and I wish to help you," she said, echoing her words from that day in her bedroom, so long passed. "I shall do whatever is in my power to protect you from harm. Do you trust that I seek to aid you?"

"I do," Hermione said, touching her face shyly, earning a beautiful and almost bashful smile. As if Fleur herself couldn't quite believe what was happening either.

"Do you trust that I bear you no ill-will and hold no malice against you?"

"I do."

"Do you trust that I will do all in my power to deflect maleficence and mischief against you?"

"I do," she said, aching to kiss her, to seal this promise in a fitting manner. Instead, she touched Fleur's lips with her thumb, finding the softness there marvellous; exquisite to the touch.

Smiling softly at her, unearthly in the starlight, Fleur stood and retrieved the phial. She gazed at it for a second, as if summoning some inner strength and poured its contents in the circle, the dark liquid shining slickly for moments before it dried into the sand. She spoke again and a crack sounded from the circle, golden light shining forth for a second. She knelt beside Hermione and lifted her hand, holding it firmly and staring at her.

"My blood, freely given, has consecrated this land tonight. Within the bounds of this circle, there is no evil, no stain. Only joy." She lifted Hermione's hand and pressed a kiss to the palm, her eyes sliding shut.

_Only love_ she heard, Fleur's voice ringing clearly in her mind. She had no idea where the thought had come from but it stole her breath. With it, Hermione could restrain herself no longer and pressed a hungry, desperate kiss to Fleur's lips. She moaned and felt Fleur do the same as they toppled together, tangled in the blanket.

As they lay together, something gripped them. Some urgency flared between them, setting them alight and burning their minds. Whatever nervousness or apprehension Hermione had felt fled, scoured by the heat between them. _Yes,_ their embrace said, _the world will end so hold onto one another for this will be your only chance._ Emboldened, Hermione pressed upwards, dislodging Fleur and earning a joyous laugh. She pulled her lover down, attempting to kiss her again but Fleur playfully resisted, dipping to press teasing kisses everywhere but her lips. Though frustrated, Hermione couldn't help but laugh at her antics. She sat up, running her hands over Fleur's shoulders and chest, slightly shy but finding the softness beneath her fingers glorious. Intoxicated, she smiled widely and leaned forward, kissing Fleur's throat.

She was gone. The scent, the warmth, the feel of Fleur's warm skin overwhelmed her entirely. Clever hands scratched her back and played with her hair, gentle and encouraging rather than insistent. She felt the pulse of Fleur's heart beneath her lips and she wondered how she'd lived so long without it. She didn't care that she had little clue of what to do, she couldn't imagine anything better.

A hand ran to the hem of her pyjamas and tugged, a warm hand touching skin. "Please," Fleur whispered, "I want to touch you," she gasped, hands shaking. Hermione, feeling much the same, nodded, fumbling at her clothing. Fleur helped, the pair desperate for contact, and soon they crashed together; breast to breast, belly to belly and core to core.

Hermione gasped, a long and breathy sound as she felt the tickle of Fleur against her. She was pulled onto her lap, and Fleur held her in strong, sure arms and kissed her neck and ears, breathing out words of affection and joy. Her mind spun, unable to keep track of the sensations or emotions exploding through her. Her world became moments, blinding and scorching in their intensity. Yes, the world was ending and it was taking her with it!

Fleur's hands ran up and down her back, as if some message was there to be discerned in the pattern of her ribs, the shift of her shoulder blades. They trembled as they went and an old echo, a line of verse flew into Hermione's mind, incongruous but not unwelcome.

_Trembling with tenderness_

Her head was swimming and she could do nothing but hang on to Fleur and gasp for breath. She felt tension and wetness gather between her legs, spilling out of her. The ocean boomed behind them, challenging but never matching their cries and groans.

"Hermione," Fleur gasped against her skin, "cherie. I can feel you…"

_Lips that would kiss_

"Fleur…"

"If it is too much," Fleur whispered into her ear, lips wet and yearning, "tell me. I will stop." Her voice was rough with pleasure, thick in her throat.

"Don't you dare!" Hermione laughed, winding her hands into Fleur's hair and kissing her with eager passion. She'd never felt anything like this before nor imagined it; had never even come close in her most carefully constructed fantasies.

Fleur inhaled sharply and brought them onto their sides, one hand underneath Hermione, between her shoulder blades. Hermione gipped her tightly, kissing her and pressing against her. Fleur dropped her other hand, running it over her side and backside before running it over her thigh. Her desperation called to Hermione and she drew her leg up, tangling with Fleur's.

_We grope together_

Hermione felt her heart still in her chest and let out a trembling moan that seemed to come from the very bottom of her lungs. Warm, clever fingers soon found their way down. Her back arched and she grabbed spasmodically at Fleur. She couldn't speak, or breathe or kiss her lover.

_And avoid speech_

She felt suspended over a great dark chasm, waiting for the sun to rise. And rise it did, when Fleur buried her face in her neck and kissed her, still moving her hand between her legs. She twisted and tweaked, pulled and pressed. Hermione found herself lifted from the blanket, shaking, gasping and sobbing and feeling everything within her clench.

Her feet dug into the blanket, her belly and centre pulsing as she calmed down. Fleur's hand was cupping her, warmly covering her and protecting her. Tears leaking from her eyes, Hermione drew her into a messy kiss.

"Fleur, oh Fleur," she gasped, "I've never felt anything like that. I mean…"

Fleur chuckled. "I understand. I've never seen anything so beautiful," she whispered, dropping light kisses over Hermione's face and neck, pausing where her pulse throbbed, her tongue hot against her. "It is intoxicating. I can feel you so keenly, ma belle," she said, huskily, rolling Hermione more securely into her embrace

"Your scent, votre cassolette ma cherie, you have no idea…"

Hermione understood the implication and felt her heart skip in her chest. She'd been aware of the act, of course, but she'd never really considered her own potential involvement. "Fleur…"

"I do not ask you to do the same," she said, running a hand down her arm to lace her fingers with Hermione's. "Allow me this indulgence, please."

The look of desire and lust on Fleur's face burned in her chest and she swallowed, excitement fluttering in her breast. She shouldn't have been so gung-ho about this, she chided herself. But, it was such a strange night! Why not allow Fleur, indeed? After all, given the state of the world, when was she going to have another chance? If this was going to be the one and only time she had sex, so be it; she would not be reluctant to take her pleasure.

"Go slowly, please," she said, smiling in anticipation as a frisson of nerves tickled beneath her spine. Fleur darted forward on hands and knees, kissing her slowly, over her but not touching her. The heat from her body scorched her. Her mouth burned a trail as it left her neck, her breasts and her belly. Hermione groaned and twisted beneath Fleur's onslaught, watching with hooded eyes but occasionally gazing up at the distant stars. When finally Fleur reach her mons, blue eyes twinkled up at her, winking slowly, a hint of the huntress in her as she lay poised.

"Tell me if it's too much," she said softly before lowering her face to Hermione's centre. It was beyond any extremes of her imagination; the warmth, the firm press and the playful little nips. It definitely was too much but she didn't want it to end. She closed her eyes, unable to process the distant pinpricks or the light in Fleur's eyes.

_Sightless, unless the eyes reappear_

She arched her back and felt Fleur quicken her pace, kissing her with abandon. Hermione was moaning again, feeling herself build to another pinnacle, different from the last. It had some other source within her, almost. Fleur kissed her with complete concentration, completely absorbed in the world between her legs. Hair brushed the inside of her thigh a second before the silk of Fleur's cheek. It sent her over the edge of a great precipice and she moaned into the night, her release long and intense.

It was too much, but she ached for more. She felt so far away from her lover and suddenly yearned for her. She grabbed Fleur, dragging her up and pulling her over her. She clung to her, arms and legs around her slender figure and her head buried in Fleur's neck, adding tears to the dampness on her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling small and vulnerable, and waited for her senses to return, surrounded by Fleur's warmth.

She came back to herself and noticed Fleur was kissing and smoothing her hair, whispering kind words to her. Hermione lifted her head and opened her eyes, seeing a near infinite number of stars shining in the sky.

"Fleur," she croaked, "that was… that was incredible."

"You have no idea," Fleur rumbled. When Hermione had pulled her onto her, Fleur's legs had fallen to either side of one of her own. She shifted on the sand, attempting to get more comfortable, and her thigh bumped into Fleur's hot, wet core. The other witch moaned, pressing herself against Hermione's leg. Hermione rolled them over, delight and desire roaring within her chest. Fleur laughed, easily supporting her weight and running her hands over her back. She slid forward to kiss her and was amazed to feel Fleur spread against her thigh. She shivered at the sensation of heat and wetness between her lover's legs, heart leaping into her throat. Fleur threw her head back and moaned, digging her hands into the blanket. Her chest heaved, laced with a delicate flush that spread over her breasts and over her ribs. She was shaking, almost undone in her desire

"Her, Hermione," she gasped, "don't stop, please." Hermione obeyed, sliding her leg against Fleur's core, trying to move surely and steadily. She wasn't sure if she was doing the right thing but Fleur was eager with her response, taking her pleasure with utter abandon. She bucked and shuddered, gasping and grabbing Hermione, thrusting up against her. She came with a short gasp, evidently surprising herself. The brunette was shocked; it took so little? Hermione marvelled at the feeling, at seeing the rosy flush over Fleur's pale chest and face; seeing the rise of her ribs and the movements of her throat. That, she decided, had been too easy.

She slid her hand down, unsure of what to do but aware of what she herself liked. Fleur felt silken, welcoming and inviting. She felt a little nub under her fingers and rubbed it, earning a keening cry.

_Multifolate rose_

"Hermione, please, you must go inside me," she whispered. Hermione paused, her heart thumping out of time at the request. Sensing her hesitation, Fleur reached down and took her hand, bringing it to her mouth and kissing the fingers.

"I don't want to hurt you... I've not..."

"It is all right, you will not," she assured her, eyes shining beneath the stars. "Please, Hermione."

She took a deep breath and nodded, slightly anxious but excited too. Fleur guided her, pressing her and showing her where to go. Hermione felt her fingers slide in easily, surrounded by clinging heat.

_Between the idea and the reality_

She moved her fingers cautiously and Fleur's hips lifted. Her lover was scorching around her fingers and begged for more. Hermione felt the pace begin to speed up, struggling to keep up with her enthusiastic lover.

_Between the motion and the act_

Fleur was meeting her, thrusting down and gripping Hermione's wrist. As she did, she mumbled to herself, incoherent with arousal. The flush had spread to her neck and cheeks, even appearing in blotchy rosettes over her belly. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back as she gasped for air.

_Between the emotion and the response_

The speed increased and Fleur released her hand, rubbing herself with shaky hands. Almost immediately, Hermione felt the strangest flutters around her fingers, rhythmic bouts of clenching and releasing, accompanied by Fleur calling her name and moving jerkily. The cords in her neck stood out and her knees were bent, every part of her trembling as she lay there.

_She came_, Hermione though to herself in wonder. _She came when I was in her._

After long moments, Fleur relaxed and Hermione slipped from her, trembling with the memory, still able to feel those strange flutters around her fingers.

_Between the desire and the spasm_

Hermione barely had time to react before Fleur was sitting up and kissing her again, her hunger _awoken_ by their deeds, not sated. "Hermione, I need you again," she moaned. Feeling herself react once more, Hermione nodded eagerly. She let herself be laid back, Fleur once again to one side.

_Between the potency and the existence_

Those long fingers were shaking now, but still found her core. They skimmed over her opening, gathering moisture before going back to her mound. All the while, Fleur was devouring her mouth, wanton with lust which Hermione responded to with enthusiasm.

She felt her core twitch, almost longing for something to hold on to. "Fleur," she gasped, "go in, please."

_Between the essence and the descent_

Fleur, her eyes dark and wild but with tenderness still evident, pulled back. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Have you ever?"

"Only me," she said, not caring that she'd just, for the first time in her life, admitted to masturbating. "Please. Go easy, just."

And Fleur did. She began carefully, moving slowly and gently. Her touch was careful but deliberate, no hesitation betrayed. Her eyes shone, dark above her and surrounded by innumerable stars.

_This is the way the world ends_

She built it up, moving faster and more firmly until Hermione was gasping and writhing. She couldn't tell where she ended and the shore began; where Fleur began. Fleur pressed hungry, desperate kisses to her neck and breasts, breathing roughly and hotly; scorching her.

_This is the way the world ends_

She felt herself near that wondrous peak again, though she couldn't quite get there. She let herself be carried away, enjoying the feel of Fleur within her. She met Fleur's hand and felt something, some little jolt that quickly vanished. She let a little sound of disappointment escape. Fleur smiled hungrily and moved down her, covering her with little kisses and pressing deeply within her. She let out a breathy moan and sucked her, at the very root of her.

_This is the way the world ends_

Hermione felt her voice fade in her throat. Her toes curled and every muscle in her body clenched. The stars faded from her vision and her chest felt empty. She came back to herself slowly, utterly spent. She lay limp on the blanket, covered in her own and Fleur's sweat. She felt herself pulse and realised Fleur was still within her.

"We have given gifts this nights, and shared in a blessing," she said, her tone serious again. "When you leave this place, it will be with my protection. Meagre as that is, I give it freely and without expectation of repayment. Go from here in peace and love," she said. She dropped a final kiss to Hermione's lips and removed her fingers. She curled around her and held her gently. Hermione felt exhaustion over take her and fell almost immediately into a deep, welcome sleep.

_Not with a bang, but a whimper_

* * *

><p>The cry of a mournful gull sounded overhead, waking Hermione. She blinked in the watery light before dawn, surprised to find herself outside. Memories of previous night flooded back to her and she drew a sharp breath. With it came a musky, heady scent the she realised belonged to her and Fleur. The other witch was curled around her, embracing her from behind.<p>

"You are awake?" she mumbled, shifting closer still. She dropped a kiss on Hermione's shoulder and sighed. "You sleep deeply."

Hermione was glad they were facing away from one another, feeling her cheeks flare red. Good gods, she'd acted like a creature of lust, gasping and writhing on the sand. She shuddered with embarrassment at the memory of the things she done and, more to the point, had done to her. The intimacy of them was overwhelming.

But, she admitted to herself, she'd never felt such incredible and powerful emotions before in her life. She'd never felt anything like that before.

"Are you all right?" Fleur asked, her voice thick. "Are you cold?"

"No, I, I'm fine, Fleur. Just, you know…"

"It is a lot to take in," Fleur agreed. "But, did you enjoy yourself?" she asked, a smile evident in her voice.

Hermione flushed and turned over to face Fleur. "You're seriously asking me that?"

Fleur smiled cockily, her hair wild and moving in the morning breeze. "Well, I could take an educated guess. But I am actually asking out of politeness. We French are not known as great lovers for nothing, you know."

Hermione laughed and covered her face with her hands, scrubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "I can't believe we did that," she said, her voice high and incredulous. Fleur must have caught her blush for she lifted her hands away and regarded her seriously.

"We did. And there is nothing to be ashamed of, Hermione."

Hermione felt her cheeks redden to an even greater extent and cursed herself. "It's not shame, really. It's more embarrassment. But a good kind, do you know what I mean? I can't believe we did it but," she dipped her eyes, suddenly shy, "I'm glad we did."

Fleur kissed her on the forehead fondly. "As am I. But, all good things must end, cherie, and the house will wake soon. I would rather not have quite everyone know my personal business, to be honest."

Hermione agreed wholeheartedly. They dressed in companionable silence, Hermione extinguishing the flames and stretching out. She felt a little bit stiff from lying on the ground, and very thirsty, but otherwise fine. Fleur dressed too before lifting the blanket and shrinking it to fit into her pocket. She nodded once and smiled, reaching for Hermione's hand.

"Together through the circle, cherie."

As they passed, Hermione felt as if she were walking through a warm shower. Heat filled her, suffusing every part of her and she sighed. She heard Fleur do the same and turned to her, both coming to a stop.

"What was that?" she asked, still feeling its warmth.

"The spell, I imagine," Fleur replied, though she was frowning slightly.

"Could you feel it too?" Hermione asked, intrigued. Fleur nodded in a way that suggested she had not expected such a thing. After a moment, though, she shook her head and blinked at her companion. Whatever she'd been thinking had been banished and she turned shining, beautiful eyes on her.

"So. At dawn, you will leave?" she asked, her voice a bit sad but lacking the heartache and uncertainty of before.

"Yes," Hermione said, herself feeling more optimistic about the future.

"Well, where ever you go, if you are in need, I will find you and help you," she said, with utter conviction. To seal the promise, she dropped a tiny, chaste kiss onto Hermione's mouth, barely touching her. It was the sweetest kiss Hermione had ever been given and she sighed in happiness.

"Likewise for you," she said, dropping a kiss of her own on Fleur's lips. It had been said lightly, she knew, but it seemed to take on the shape of something very solemn once it had left her mouth.

She found she couldn't bring herself to mind.

* * *

><p>Dear Reader,<p>

Well. There you go. That was quite hard to write, you know. I'd be very, VERY interested to hear what people thought about this chapter. Was it entirely bonkers and out of character? Should I hide beneath a riot shield for a while?

Should I be hanged for using T.S. Eliot's _The Hollow Men_ in a setting I'm sure the man never dreamed it would be used?

Anyway, if you got this far, thank you for reading!


	10. The Odds are There to Beat

Dear Reader,

Well, as difficult as the last chapter was to write, this was the easiest! It was one that was added to when I should have been doing other bits. As always, your comments were very much appreciated. Thank you for taking the time to leave them.

* * *

><p>They walked back from the beach hand in hand, Hermione unable to hold back a laugh when Fleur swung their joined hands between them. The taller woman leaned into her, bumping their shoulders together playfully. Hermione felt her face aching with the grin that stretched it and ducked her head, quite sure she was sporting a very, very stupid expression.<p>

"You're in a good mood," Fleur observed, her tone light. Hermione turned to face her, gaping. Fleur was clearly trying to keep a smile off her face but was failing miserably.

"Well, I think you're to blame for that," she replied, archly, trying to preserve her dignity.

"To blame?" Fleur asked, turning to look at her, that same smile playing over her lips. "To thank, surely."

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks in astonishment, tugging Fleur to a stop. "You smug…"

Fleur turned to her, granting free reign to that grin (which was, Hermione felt, quite smug indeed). "Now, now," she chided, "don't be like that."

Hermione bit her lip, trying to keep herself from laughing. "You know, I expected this to be a much more solemn affair, somehow."

"Well, solemnity rarely exists so close to novelty."

"I suppose that's true," Hermione mused, starting to walk again. Fleur squeezed her fingers and she turned to glance at her, wishing she could devote her entire attention to her. But the ground was uneven and she had no desire to twist her ankle.

They were silent in the stillness before the dawn, content in each other's company and in the warm affection between them. All the things that Hermione had felt bursting from her, desperate to be articulated, had lost their urgency. Although she knew there was much left unsaid, she felt that the most important messages had been heard. They walked shoulder to shoulder, picking their way over the path in the faint light before dawn.

Soon they reached the cottage, quietly stepping through into the kitchen and taking their shoes off. Hermione took a breath, knowing that it was time for her to get ready. She rubbed her eyes tiredly.

_Ideally, a good night's sleep should have been had before heading off to raid the most carefully guarded building in Britain,_ she thought, ruefully.

Fleur yawned, covering her mouth. "Sorry," she said afterwards, her lips curling upwards with humour, as if she wanted to say something else.

Hermione held up a hand. "If you say something silly like _someone kept me up all night_ I may have to strike you."

Fleur's eyebrows shot up and that same grin returned. "Perish the thought," she said in a tone of voice that fully implied she'd been considering doing just that. Hermione shook her head, fighting against another grin. It was ridiculous; she was about to head into dreadful danger and she felt giddy. But she couldn't find the despair and worry she'd become so familiar with. They'd been banished in the night, beneath the stars and beside the ocean. She knew that peril awaited her but it didn't hold the same freezing terror anymore. She had a job to do and she felt, perhaps for the first time, as if she was equal to the task.

Fleur smiled at her, eyes sparkling in the dim light and lifted a hand, touching her hair, brushing it back behind her ear with gentle affection. "The boys will be awake soon. You three have requested privacy and as much as I wish to stay with you…"

"It wouldn't be helpful, in the long run," Hermione finished. "It's all right. I need to have a shower anyway."

Fleur's eyebrow twitched and mirth danced in her eyes for a fraction of a second before she schooled her features. Hermione felt she should have been quite scandalised but found herself smothering another smile. "Sand. Sand bloody everywhere."

"Go," Fleur said, ducking her head. "Before I burst out laughing and wake the entire house."

Hermione nodded, stepping forward. A little jolt of apprehension moved through her, for she felt that words could not properly convey what she wished to communicate. "I just wanted to thank you, Fleur. For everything. Thank you for looking after us, for taking us in. For my wand," she looked away, overwhelmed by the emotion in Fleur's eyes and brimming in her own chest, "for everything."

Fleur's arms wrapped around her and she felt a gentle kiss pressed against her head. "No thanks are needed, Hermione. I feel that I should thank you."

"For what?" she asked, bringing her own hands up to wrap around Fleur's waist, quite surprised by the sentiment.

"For the privilege of knowing you; of spending time with you. For your friendship."

Hermione didn't know what to say to that and just squeezed Fleur more firmly, surrounded by her warmth and softness. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to Fleur's shoulder, sighing. A noise came from the living room, Harry's alarm, and they reluctantly parted, though they clasped each other's hands.

They faced each other then and sorrow was clearly written on Fleur's face. But it wasn't the hopeless, empty sorrow that they'd come to know. As dark as their days were, they'd found a light that could not be extinguished. It shone in her chest now, cheering her and warming her heart. Hermione nodded and dropped Fleur's hands gently.

"Right. I'm off then."

"Farewell," Fleur said, quietly, her eyes shining with tears. "Shall I put the kettle on for you?"

"That would be fantastic."

* * *

><p>After her shower, Hermione made sure the boys were actually awake before climbing the stairs to her room. Luna was snoring softly and did not waken as she entered nor when she changed into her costume for the day. She gathered her beaded bag and took a deep breath, leaving Fleur's soft blue jumper on the bed quite regretfully. She'd become quite fond of it during her stay and almost wished she could take it with her. She reached into the bag, taking out a letter and a slim book. She opened the volume to a certain page and slid the short message in, noticing that her hand was trembling slightly. She gently placed the book in the folds of the jumper and left the room.<p>

At the bottom of the stairs, she turned her attention to the closed parlour door. Wistful regret filled her and she longed to join Fleur there. But it was time to go, she knew, and do what had to be done. There was nothing left for her to say or do here.

"Good bye," she whispered to the closed door, before turning to go.

* * *

><p>"Fleur! Where are you?" Fleur jolted awake, almost falling out of her chair. She blinked, completely disorientated, and shook her head. She'd only intended on sitting down for a moment after putting the kettle on but clearly her exhausted body had other plans. Bill opened the parlour door and sighed in relief.<p>

"Fleur! You're not going to bloody believe this…"

"Bill, what time is it?"

"It's almost half ten," he scolded, pulling his wife up and tugging her into the kitchen. Dean and Luna were there with enraptured looks on their faces, close to a wizarding wireless. It was evidently tuned to Potterwatch and a number of very excited witches and wizards were shouting, with Lee Evans, or River, trying to maintain order. One man was louder than the rest, babbling away excitedly.

"-never seen an'thin' like it, guv! Ruddy great dragon with these three BLEEPing lunatics 'angin' orf its neck! BLEEPing huge BLEEPing dragon, guv!"

"Thank you but bloody hell, tone it down, mate!" Lee hissed, "children and impressionable grannies are listening to this."

"Oh, sorry guv. But you won't believe the best bit! One of them young nutters? 'Arry Potter hisself!"

There was silence for a long moment, both around the table and over the air.

"Just, so, uh," Lee said, "let me get this straight. You say that about fifteen minutes ago, a dragon emerged from the ruins of Gringott's Bank, carrying Harry Potter and two others? Pull the other one, mate, it's got bells on."

"Stop the press, River! Or the wires, whatever," came the cheerful voice of Fred Weasley. "I've just risked life and limb down in Diagon Alley, expertly disguised, mind, and the punters were lining up to tell me that it was _him_! No mistaking him. Scrawny, stupid hair cut, glasses and, ladies and gentlemen, a LIGHTNING BOLT on his BLEEPing forehead!"

"Not you too, mate…" Lee protested mildly.

"Also seen were two of Potter's stoutest allies," here Fred seemed to get a bit choked up, "and can I just say how incredibly proud I am, and a lot of others like me, for what they've done."

Lee cleared his voice. "Er, what _have_ they done?"

"No idea!" Fred continued, undaunted, "but likely very important. I know Harry Potter personally and he's not the sort to go destroying financial institutions without a very, very good reason."

Lee laughed at that. "Right. I'm sorry to wrap up this emergency round of Potterwatch but stay tuned! The next password will be 'bleeping dragon'! Good morning ladies and gentlemen, Harry Potter is currently riding a dragon!" he said, delight in his voice.

With that, the noise from the broadcast faded before it hissed white static. Fleur slumped to a chair, shaking. She could feel her eyes, round in her skull. She blinked owlishly.

"Dragons? They're riding a dragon?"

"And they destroyed most of Gringott's," Luna added. "They've been busy, I haven't even had breakfast yet. "

There was another silence. "Those utter loons," Dean said, shaking his head. "What the hell do they think they're up to?"

Bill flicked the wireless off, shaking his head. "Whatever it is, I'll bet that things aren't going to be quite for the next few days. Everyone get ready, we'll head to Muriel's at noon and see if there's any news."

* * *

><p>Molly Weasley was pacing Aunt Muriel's kitchen, tearing at a tissue in her hands and stomping up and down. Ginny was half watching her with a weary expression and half reading the Quibbler. When Bill, Fleur, Dean and Luna entered, both their jaws fell open.<p>

"Bill! What on earth? You found Dean and Luna, oh, darlings!" Molly said, sweeping forward and gathering the two teenagers into a fond embrace. Ginny was close behind, whispering urgently to Luna. "Are you all right? Mr Ollivander said you were safe but I didn't realise you'd be coming here. Is everything all right?"

"Uh,' Dean stammered, looking a bit confused, "well, we're fine."

Bill cleared his throat. "Mum, they were all with us. We asked Ollivander to say nothing, just in case."

Molly didn't seem pleased with that, Fleur noted, but shrugged it off as best she could. "Oh, well, I suppose…"

"," Bill mumbled in a rush, squeezing his eyes shut. His mother was very, very quiet for a long moment, her eyes wide at the news.

"What?" she demanded, in a low, threatening tone. "Are you telling me that my Ron, my son, whom I have been worrying about since _August_ was only over in Shell Cottage the entire time? With Harry and Hermione?" By the end of the sentence, she was screeching. Fleur slunk back, sharing a guilty look with Ginny. Bill, being close to his little sister, had told her that the gang were with them at Fleur's urging.

Molly, intimately familiar with a guilty look, whipped her head from side to side. "You knew! Ginevra Weasley, you knew and you didn't tell me!"

"Not since August, mum, only a few weeks. Since all that happened in the Lovegood's," Ginny muttered.

"We couldn't risk Harry's whereabouts becoming known to the enemy," Fleur said, weaving a small amount of force into her words. "Each person who knew was one more person who could be captured and tortured for it," the room went quiet and she felt Molly cast her a truly evil glare.

"Never mind all that, mum," Ginny said, "you can give out to us later. Did you hear about the dragon?"

"It's true then?" Bill asked, shaking his head in wonder. "Those utter idiots. What the hell are they up to?"

"What ever it was, it was enough to get a dozen people killed by you-know-who," Arthur said, emerging from the sitting room. "Afternoon son, Fleur. Good heavens, is that Luna Lovegood? And Dean? Wonderful to see you both in one piece!"

Bill shook his head, blinking at the news. "Wait, dozens of people were killed?"

"Yes, it seems that you-know-who wasn't happy at what happened in Gringott's at all. Goblins, guards and a load of Death Eaters were pulled out in the last hour or so. Mostly in pieces."

Fleur's mind was racing. She turned to Bill and Luna, frowning for a long time. "What were they looking for?" she mused. "The real sword?"

"No," Luna said, "they had that. Griphook lied in Malfoy Manor."

"Sword? What?" Molly shrieked.

"Look, mum," Bill said, standing at his full height. "Harry, Ron and Hermione are on a mission from Dumbledore. We've all tried to get them to tell us what was that is but they were sworn to secrecy. We helped, we all have to help, but only in certain ways. Whatever they're doing, it's essential."

Molly glared and looked like she was about to launch into a very long and loud protest when Arthur put a hand on her arm. "Shall I put the kettle on? It's almost lunch time."

So the household gathered. Ollivander greeted Fleur and Luna warmly, asking after Luna's new wand. Muriel was not at all impressed to find four more bodies in her house and made some very snide remarks about Fleur's hair now being the same length as Bill's. Fred and George arrived back half way through and were delighted to share more tales of Harry, Hermione and Ron's adventures by dragon back. No one had a clue where they'd gone because someone (and Fleur was sure it had been Hermione) had cast concealing charms around the beast.

"But north, I bet," Fred said, chewing a bacon sandwich, "it was an Arctic Singer, would have hated the heat underground or in London.

"Do you think they'll return to Shell Cottage?" Molly asked, accusingly.

"No," Fleur said, sadly. "Not unless something terrible happens. If they do arrive back, I will know immediately so if I leave in a hurry, I beg your pardon in advance." In truth, she wasn't enthusiastic about the idea of sitting around with constant reminders of Hermione. Her scent was still everywhere, light on the tongue and like an aphrodisiac to her. Given that she had no idea when she'd see the other witch again, she wasn't keen to be surrounded by reminders of her, especially if they were going to put themselves in such danger.

Her heart ached at the thought of harm befalling Hermione. She'd done what she could to keep her safe, but what if it wasn't enough? It wasn't like Harry, where a _life_ had been sacrificed. _But something important, all the same._

Bill saw her worry and took her hand, frowning sadly. She hadn't told him what had happened but he wasn't stupid; she hadn't been sleeping in the parlour for the good of her health or back. She sighed and smiled weakly at him, wondering how much damage she'd done to their relationship.

The day dragged on. There was no further word of Harry but there was a new buzz; those who stood opposed to the Dark Lord felt reenergised by Harry's bold move and were reaching out to one another. A measure of courage returned to them and they whispered now, telling each other the good news.

Fleur sat with Ginny, Luna and the twins for a while in the living room, everyone catching up on the latest news. Fleur also spoke to Ginny alone about Harry, telling her all she could remember. She told her about their chat the night before, causing her to blush a furious red.

"He loves you, you know. Cares deeply for you."

"I know he does," she said, tears in her soft brown eyes, "the daft git!" she laughed. "Well, he'll do what he has to, but so will I."

Night began to fall and Fleur found herself tasked with helping prepare dinner. She knew Molly didn't really like her, and was never shy about letting the fact be known, but she seemed quite subdued for once as if building her ire. Fleur felt sure that an explosion was imminent and that the only thing preventing her from speaking was the fact that she was so angry, she couldn't quite decide where to start. She apparently resented that Fleur had concealed the Trio from her and was not going to forgive her for it anytime soon.

Fleur decided there and then that she was taking the secret of Ron's Christmas visit to her grave.

They were busy chopping vegetables when George burst in through the door, excitement lighting his features.

"Harry's in Hogwarts!" he shouted. "We're to get to Ab and into the school!" utter delight spread across his face, eyes bright with hope.

Fleur was so shocked that several knives she was controlling went flying into the ceiling. "What!"

"How in the name of goodness do you know that?" Molly demanded, brandishing a knife of her own. George didn't stop smiling though, going as far as to grab Fleur's hands and swing her around in a circle.

"The coins! Our galleons from Dumbledore's Army!" he said. "Come on then, no time for dinner! Hogwarts is in need!"

Fleur felt a bolt of fear trip down her spine. What in the name of Merlin had possessed Harry to return there? She stripped off her apron and nodded sharply.

"Mrs Weasley, I am sending a message to my family. They must know."

"All right, I'll go see where the others are," she said, bustling off. Fleur ran out the back door and apparated to Shell Cottage, whistling shrilly for ten or twelve seconds. A gull screamed and arced to her, swooping around her before settling on her shoulder. She brought him inside and set him on the kitchen table, cleanliness be damned. She grabbed a sheet of note paper and a pen. She wrote to her mother in the language of the veela, a secret tongue not even her father would be able to decipher.

_Mother and Father,_

_Hogwarts. The battle has begun. Warn all!_

_Fleur_

"Good evening, my friend," she said to the bird, tying the note to his stout leg. She sang to him, leaving a clear picture in his mind where he needed to be. He cried at her but once outside, beat his mighty wings and was away. Fleur paused for a moment. Here, further west and beside the sea, the last hints of the evening sun remained. She grabbed her leather jacket and, casting one last look around her house, was gone.

* * *

><p>She apparated straight to Aberforth Dumbledore's pub, almost falling over Ginny and Luna.<p>

"Ginny! Your mother is not going to be happy to find you here!" she said, shaking her head. "Which twin brought you here?"

"Now, that would be telling!" she said. "But you're right, mum'll make me leave. Luna and Dean, let's go."

"Ginny, wait," Fleur said sternly. Luna and Dean headed on after a nod from their leader and Ginny folded her arms. She resembled her mother then, stubborn and utterly obstinate but Bill as well. She had his self-possession and courage, despite her young age.

"You're not stopping me. Don't even try it or you'll have a nose full of bats before you can blink."

Fleur sighed. "I told Harry I'd keep an eye on you. That did not cover you fighting in whatever is to come."

Ginny scoffed. "Keep an eye on me if you want to see some decent hexes. Fleur, I'm going down there and I'm helping. And so are you."

Fleur blinked, slightly taken aback. Ginny continued. "We need everyone we can get to help. I know Harry. He wouldn't endanger everyone in Hogwarts unless it was important and he would have waited for holidays unless it was urgent. It's clear we don't have time to wait. Go and gather the rest of the Order, get them here, Fleur. We need some muscle right now."

Fleur sighed, knowing that the second she turned her back, Ginny would head straight down the tunnel after her friends. She opened her mouth to protest but was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a large number of people. Half the Order stood around her with more appearing at every moment. George popped in with two young women, one of whom cracked her knuckles.

"Right," Lupin shouted, pushing his way through, "everyone here?"

"Who's coming," Arthur said, grimly.

"So be it, to the Great Hall and quick about it!" Lupin called, leading the charge. "Kingsley, at the front with me. Watch your backs, everyone!" A lot of jostling and shoving ensued and by the time Fleur glanced back to Ginny, she was gone. Muttering under her breath, she grabbed Bill's hand and ran after the others, their booted feet pounding the stone passage.

"Bill, I need to tell you something," she hissed as they ran.

"Can it wait?"

"No. Hermione and I-"

"I know, I know," he sighed, "of course you did."

They ran along in silence for a while before Fleur was able to summon the courage to speak. "And? Have you anything to say?"

"Nothing I haven't already," he said quietly. "But bloody hell, at least admit it!" he growled, angrily, "You love her. Have the guts to admit it."

Fleur felt as if she'd been slapped, then felt like slapping herself. _Of course you love her, you silly girl. You have since she arrived on your doorstep._

"Merde."

"Indeed," Bill huffed.

They were quiet for the rest of the sprint to the castle and poured out into a large and hectic room. Ginny was standing there, looking absolutely innocent beside Harry, and Fleur glared at her. Bill let go of her hand but pulled her into a rough hug.

"You're daft, and you have some of the strangest ways of doing things but I love you anyway. Don't die, all right?"

"I love you too," she told him, "don't die either." He kissed her head and she closed her eyes, hoping that this wouldn't be their final few moments together. She kept well away from the argument with Ginny, hoping that Molly would just order her to safety, and turned her attention to Harry. Why was he alone? Where were Hermione and Ron? She desperately wanted to find Hermione but knew that there were other, pressing issues to be dealt with and that the other witch was more than capable of looking after herself. Besides, they'd completed the spell. Even if they weren't close together, Hermione was still very much under her protection.

_But still, I should be by her side._

She was utterly surprised, as was Harry it appeared, to see Percy Weasley stumble into the group. She felt her mouth gape open and searched for something, anything, to talk about. She and Lupin babbled about Teddy for a moment, trying to ignore the horribly embarrassing scene behind them

She saw the Weasleys gathering to leave and Bill nodded to her. She cast a look back, between Ginny and Harry, not sure what to do. The Boy Who Lived caught her eye and shook his head sadly, motioning for her to go. She frowned and stepped towards them anyway.

"No, go," he said, heartache in his eyes, "hold the castle defences, we need to evacuate everyone. Gin's going to stand watch here, get them out. We need to give them time." Even now, he never lost sight of the greater good. Ginny nodded too, apparently happy to stay put for the time being, though Fleur suspected that wouldn't last long.

She took a breath and nodded, running after her husband, the twins and Percy. The young man, who had a weak chin and a scrawny neck, awkwardly shook her hand.

"So, you're my sister in law now?" he asked.

Fleur smiled ruefully. _I am, but for how long?_

* * *

><p>They were given their positions and told to defend them for as long as they safely could. Herself and Bill were sent to the astronomy tower, high up in the school. It wasn't long before Death Eaters poured into the cold, dusty maze of walkways and stairs. They fought like demons, shrieking behind their masks but Fleur and Bill stood together and all who approached them fell, some plummeting down through the inky depths of the tower. Fleur had no idea if they were dead or not and found that she didn't care. These people had come to murder children in their school; she would show no mercy.<p>

These were not the elite of his troops, she quickly realised. These were clumsy and unskilled, malevolent but unpractised. They fell before her and she crowed in victory, feeling her blood stir. Bill threw back his head and howled, rattling the rafters and sending birds screaming to wing. Fleur called to them, bidding them to attack and gore; to seek eyes and throats.

Blood flew everywhere and the Death Eaters retreated. Fleur drew a breath, eyes darting around the tower. Bill was still, snarling softly. He was ferocious in battle, the wolf closer to the surface than it had ever been.

"Are they gone?" she asked.

"No, they're waiting for something," he hissed. "We need to-"

Fleur felt her chest torn asunder. A pain like no other she'd ever felt flowed over her. Pure, distilled and furious hatred lashed out at her, filling her mind and heart. She screamed, hands flying to her head as she collapsed to her knees. She felt Bill grab her and shake her, but she couldn't breath. This malice had more than one source, too. She recognised the slimy, oily taint of Bellatrix Lestrange and writhed in agony. There was another there too, one stronger and even more filled with malice.

She tried, and failed, to catch her breath and felt Bill lift her. They were moving then but her mind was cut loose from her body. It seemed as if her soul being torn apart from her flesh, slowly dragged away from her. Her heart thumped erratically in her chest and she felt as though she was falling into a dark, lightless cavern. The world around her was cold and still, stinging her as she tumbled through the silent void.

_I see you,_ a voice hissed, reptilian and devoid of any positive human emotion. _I know you. Your selfish heart, robbing her of her innocence to satisfy your own hunger._

_She thinks she's saved her precious little tart,_ came the voice of Bellatrix Lestrange, _but I'll have her before the end. You failed! she cackled hysterically. She's mine._

_And more, you lied to her. You tricked her._

_Mine! All mine._

She felt her heart racing erratically, devoid of any normal rhythm or beat and she felt pressure building behind her eyes. Her lungs burned, scorching within her chest. She ground her teeth, the pain searing underneath her skin and stabbing through into her flesh. It was beyond anything she imagined and she found her mind emptying, but for the vicious taunts echoing there.

_No,_ she thought, _you will never have her._

A memory came to mind, slowly and with great effort. Hermione; bare skin shining in the light of stars and dim flames. She was leaning over her, a look of wonder and astonishment on her face as she traced the line of her breast bone, smiling softly as she drew patterns on Fleur's skin. She raised her eyes and they seemed golden in the light, full of joy and excitement at what they'd shared.

As the voices closed around her, as shadow dimmed the image before her, she clung to that golden light. She wrapped herself around it and embraced it with all her might, unwilling to let it be swallowed in that awful void. But the abyss around them was greedy, unrelenting in its desire to consume and she felt herself torn, flayed by the evil around her.

_If this is it, if I am to die, so be it_, she thought grimly. But she wouldn't die cowering in pain and fear. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to take a breath.

"Hermione!" she called, to that faint golden glimmer. She saw her face, her dark brow and fine nose; her bushy hair and intelligent eyes. Hermione smiled at her and the curse was broken. Fleur fell back into herself, sensation, breath and pulse returning all at once. After a long moment, she opened her eyes and found herself in Bill's arms, below the ruin of the tower. She blinked at him and he coughed, dust covering both of them.

"Bastards blew the tower out from around us. But what happened to you?"

"Hermione est en danger. Quelque, something terrible she has found, evil," she panted, her English failing her. "Bill," she said, tears forming, "I must go to her."

"Right," he said, quietly. "Right, come on then."

He stood and pulled her after him. They found a very dusty and angry Professor Sprout under a felled beam and helped her out. The three fought their way through the ruined school, cutting down every enemy they could find. They saw, to their horror, the wall of a corridor explode inwards ahead of them, admitting a dozen Death Eaters. Bill grabbed Fleur and shoved her towards a tapestry.

"Go! That'll take you to the Great Hall! Hurry up!" he roared.

She felt her heart break. How could she leave him now? Sprout send an impressive hex outwards, bowling over several Death Eaters and Bill stunned another.

"Find her!" he shouted, tears in his bright eyes. "Help her!"

She nodded one and threw herself down the narrow stair way. She saw three Death Eaters towering over a student and sent them flying over the balustrade, cracking into the stone floor far below. The young witch sat up, dusting herself off.

"Where to?" she asked and Fleur recognised her as Cho Chang.

"Cho!" she said, delighted, "help Bill and Professor Sprout, up those stairs."

Cho seemed amazed to see her as well and shook her head. "Will do, Fleur." Cho spied several other Ravenclaw students watching from behind a statue and brought them with her. Guilt assuaged somewhat, Fleur continued.

* * *

><p>A stray curse hit the wall beside her head, showering Fleur in chips of stone and dust. Crouching over a young blonde with thick hair, she laid her hand on her chest, feeling for a heart beat. No life stirred there and Fleur left her body. The wounds had been caused by none other than Fenrir Greyback and she felt it was long past time that his life ended.<p>

The huge doors of Hogwarts screamed on their hinges as they blew inwards, almost ripped from their frames. Instantly, the space filled with great, stinking and hissing spiders. Some were the size of cattle and Fleur backed away. A student stood frozen in fear as one barrelled towards him.

"_Wingardium leviosa_!" she called, flicking him up onto the balcony to land on his arse beside a bespectacled woman busy chucking crystal balls at any Death Eaters she saw. Fleur found herself almost bowled over as Hagrid exploded past, running at the spiders with his umbrella raised. They had him in seconds and a bristling, fuming ball of spite charging him down.

To her utter amazement, Harry Potter appeared out of thin air to race after him. His friend was gone before he'd taken ten steps and Fleur resisted the urge to call his name.

Hermione Granger, however, did not. Fleur couldn't see her, but she ran in the direction of the terrified shout anyway. It brought her closer to Harry too. She stunned a Death Eater aiming at the Boy Who Lived and was halfway across the hall when she found herself leaping upwards, landing in a roll and turning to face backwards. She realised that she'd jumped to avoid a huge, hairy limb swinging from an enormous spider. It flung itself at her and she dodged, slicing at it with curses, hexes and jinxes. Eventually, one took out several of its eyes and it reared back in pain. The sound was horrible but did not stop her from sending a broken piece of wood flying into its heart. Or rather, where she presumed its heart would be.

She couldn't see Harry or Hermione anywhere. The way behind was choked with Death Eaters and Hogwartians doing battle so she sped forwards, out through the great door. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet as she emerged into the chaos of the darkened courtyard. Pausing briefly she saw, to her relief, red hair moving in the general direction of the forest close behind two other figures. She dodged two giants fighting one another and was almost past them when a piece of flying masonry caught her in the shoulder, spinning her around and sending her into a tumble. She picked herself up and, shaking her head to clear it, continued after the trio.

Her vision was somewhat blurry as she stumbled forwards and she paused for a minute to stand still and let it clear. She opened her eyes and saw a great host, almost a sea, of black, ragged wraiths sliding out of the Forbidden Forest and towards the three tiny figures. She almost screamed at the sight, so hot was her anger. Instead, she clutched her wand and started forwards.

"You know," a tired voice sounded from her elbow, "four against all of them is almost as suicidal as three."

Fleur's heart lightened at the voice and turned to greet Luna. Two boys stood with her, one of whom was quite familiar. All were filthy, bloody and close to collapse. But they wore grim, hungry looks and nodded as she started down the hill. They ran, flying over the uneven ground, sprinting towards their friends. Twin flickers of feeble light shone and went out. Harry staggered, holding his head and Ron was frozen. Hermione fell to her knees and though they were far apart, though there were a hundred Dementors reaching out their bony hands, Fleur heard her sob.

It struck something deep within her and for a fraction of a second, she remembered hearing Hermione sob and gasp under very different circumstances. Warmth and affection filled her; she could taste Hermione on her lips and feel her hot breath on her neck. Dark eyes reflected the sky above them, full of tears and stars.

_And love_, Fleur realised, allowing herself to face it for the first time. Her eyes had been full of love, a love that had reached out and met its counter part in herself. She called that love to her and armoured it with memories of their time together. A hundred leapt at the chance but the strongest was that of Hermione laughing softly in her ear in joy and wonder after they'd made love.

_"Expecto patronum!"_ she roared, her stride never breaking. Silver light erupted around her and coalesced, running beside her. Finding the ground too slow, it leapt into the air and swam through the currents there. Behind him appeared a long legged hare, bounding over the grass, a quick fox and a roaring boar. The otter led the charge and dived over Hermione's head, hit the ground running and stood in front of Harry. He reared up on his hind legs, balanced on his tail and raised his fore paws defiantly. Fleur laughed at the sight, the enemies around meaningless. How could these shadows, these shades, hope to compete with what was in her heart? What chance had those hollow, empty abominations?

The hare, the boar and the fox raced in front of the otter, the boar standing at the front of the little phalanx. As they neared, she saw Ron trembling on the ground and Hermione kneeling, her face hidden beneath waves of unruly hair. The familiar boy rushed to Ron while Luna stepped to Harry. She made her way to Hermione, never lowering her wand but never taking her eyes off the other witch.

"Hermione," she said, warmly, lowering her right hand to stroke her hair gently. "Come along now, it's not time to give up yet, my dear one."

Their breath steamed in the unnaturally cold air, mingling with the silver trails left by the Patronuses. The Dementors milled, seeming to sneer at the little animals. But they didn't waver or fade, though the otter did run to them, setting his forepaws on Hermione's legs and peering up at her sternly.

"No, no it's not," Hermione agreed. She raised her wand at almost the same moment Harry did and his stag led the charge. The pair of otters gambolled after it, rolling through the air together. The Dementors fled, sinking back into the woods. Hermione lifted her face and stared at Fleur with shock, her eyes wide in the dim light.

Smiling, Fleur lifted her hands to her hair and pulled off her tie, letting her short hair go free. Quickly, she tugged Hermione's unruly hair backwards and into a messy pony tail. She stood and pulled the smaller woman after her.

"Can't thank you enough," Ron said, off to the side, but Fleur froze. Something was coming.

"Run!" she shouted and heard Harry echo it. She pulled Hermione after her, sprinting again as a giant appeared from the trees. The other three ran in the other direction and she was glad to see that no one was injured. The four of them ran, barely avoiding the giant's club. She narrowed her eyes and sent a hex at it, hitting the brute right in the face. He bellowed in pain and collapsed in a heap.

Harry was shouting at Ron and though she couldn't make it out, she followed his lead. They ran and ran, away from the castle and she wondered what strange quest they had to fulfil now. They slowed as they reached a great willow and Fleur was startled when it began whipping its branches at them. It was angry, clearly, snarling and roaring at them to stay away. She pulled Hermione back, almost cradling her as the smaller witch took deep, hungry breaths. She sounded as though she were in pain.

Ron was panting. "How, how're we going to get in? I can, see the place," he gasped, "if we just had Crookshanks again.

"Crookshanks?" Hermione demanded, when she finally found her breath, "are you a wizard or what?" she bit out, irritation plain despite her winded state.

Ron, a bit embarrassed, levitated a twig beneath the branches and the tree quietened. They stood still for a moment before Harry took a halting step forward, turning to face the rest of them. Ron huffed and shook his head.

"Harry, we're coming, just get in there," he said gruffly, shoving his friend forwards.

"No!" he said, staring at Fleur. He shook his head at her, and her alone. She scowled.

"I can help! Whatever is happening down there, I am going with you."

"No!" Harry roared again, tears welling. "No! I can't stop those two, but you can't come! I mean, it's bad enough with Fred…" Tears spilled over his cheeks and Fleur's heart thumped in her chest. _No_, she thought, _not Fred!_ She saw the fear, anger and defeat in his eyes but was not moved to step aside. She opened her mouth to insist when a pale, but grimy, hand touched her shoulder.

"Fleur," Hermione begged, eyes wide and sad, "please. We don't have time to argue. Or to explain what's happening. Please, you don't know what we have to do and there's no time to tell you. Please, let us go."

_Let me go_ was the real request and Fleur felt her heart clench when she heard it. But she trusted Hermione and knew that it was true. The trio before her often knew what one was doing before they actually did it; they were an excellant team. Too much rested on their mission to jeopardise it with misplaced heroics, as well. But above all that, she couldn't refuse Hermione, not when she asked so gently.

"I will stand guard here, then."

"No," Harry said, sounding weary, "then they'll know that someone is there. Please, go help the others, find… Help," his eyes shone and she knew who he was so concerned about.

"Is she still here?" she asked softly.

"Near where you came in, I hope."

"I will guard her."

"Thank you," he said, truly meaning it. He nodded his farewell and turned, sliding into the tunnel. Ron gestured to Hermione to follow and, with one last longing glance at Fleur, she did. Ron brought up the rear, nodding at her as he went.

The night was free of the sounds of battle for a moment as Fleur's pulse pounded in her ears. She felt dread fill her and almost followed Ron. She steeled herself. They would return alive, bearing whatever object or weapon or ally they needed. Harry Potter would save them all and she would protect the girl he loved so that when the dust settled, they would have peace.

* * *

><p>Fleur entered a quiet, devastated Hogwarts. She'd been waylaid by a pack of spiders on her return and had spent some time sending them away. They'd been small, for their kind, none larger than a labrador but they'd been plentiful. One had opened a wound on the back of her thigh but she found herself too weary to heal it. As she'd crossed the last stretch of ground, the voice of Voldemort had rattled in her mind, whispering his vile promises.<p>

Her anger boiled. He had spoken of valour yet had not taken to the field of battle. He spoke of mercy as he slaughtered children. He spoke of dignity as he sent foul creatures to ravage the dead. In his magnanimity, he'd left an hour in which he imagined the defenders of Hogwarts would surrender their courage and present Harry to the Dark Lord. She knew, with certainty, that there was less chance of that happening than there was of the giant squid tap dancing in the Great Hall. She stepped over Death Eaters, pausing to ensure that they were dead. She wasn't sure why she checked; to offer mercy or to finish them off? She didn't have to find out, thankfully. She came across two students, one with his leg pinned and crushed beneath a fallen gargoyle. The stone creature was apologising profusely but was unable to move itself.

She stopped to help him into the castle, his friend cradling a broken wand in a broken arm. The only other people they saw were hurrying towards the Great Hall and they followed. The boy in her arms was weeping quietly, blood dripping from his trousers to mingle with what already stained the stone floors. Gore and blood soaked the place, some puddles large enough to suggest fatality. Emeralds lay scattered over the floor, many of them stained red and shining wetly. _How apt._

She brought the pair of boys into the hall and found them somewhere to sit. The school nurse glanced at them, satisfied that they were not near death's door, and continued administering to those who _were_. Fleur laid a hand on the boy's leg, closing her eyes. The bones of his lower leg were broken in many places and his knee had been torn asunder. However, the great vessels of his leg and the shaft of his femur were intact. He would not succumb to these injuries at any point in the near future. She told him this and, after checking his friend, told them to wait for the nurse. Her own skill in healing was above average but her mind was buzzing and her heart too sick to be useful at that moment. She left them and walked, as in a daze, down the hall.

Remus and Tonks lay side by side, faces still and bloodless. She felt tears build at the sight but continued towards the knot of red haired Weasleys. Molly was weeping over her son's body, Arthur trying to console her. George knelt at his brother's head, looking terribly forlorn. Bill stood with his arm over Ginny and Percy's shoulders, cradling his younger siblings under his strong arms. His eyes met hers and he wept unashamedly, chin trembling. She rushed forward and caught him in her arms, letting him cry onto her shoulder. She cried too, unable to escape the sorrow and grief of the moment.

He didn't weep for long before he pulled himself upright and wiped his eyes. Fleur turned to Ginny, who looked so young and confused. She was safe though, and she would remain so. She touched her shoulder gently and was surprised when the youngest Weasley threw herself into her arms, gripping her tightly before releasing her. There was no time left, she knew, for old animosities or pettiness. Percy shook her hand too, eyes wet and miserable.

She moved back to Bill and watched the Hall, waiting for those she knew must return. The trio entered eventually, Hermione embracing Ginny and Ron standing with Percy. Harry stood, looking lost and terribly sad. A choked sob sounded from beside her, drawing her attention and causing her to turn to Hermione and Ginny. They stood close to her and she saw that Hermione was weeping. She reached down and took her hand, squeezing it gently and the three of them stood embracing one another in the uneasy calm.

When she looked back, to see where Harry was, there was no sign of him at all.

* * *

><p>The grief poured out of them all, but Fleur knew that there was much to do and little time remaining before battle would begin anew. She gave Hermione's hand one last squeeze and moved back to the pair of students. She knelt beside them and smiled wanly. "We must work now, to get you out of here to safety."<p>

"No," the boy with the broken leg protested, "I want to stay and fight!"

Fleur regarded him carefully before nodding. There was precious little she could do at this point. She had no potions and she was exhausted. "If I could heal you, I would, but this is beyond my skill. You must leave. You've played your part."

"How?" asked his friend softly, "how can he go?"

"The house elves," a weary voice answered. Fleur turned grateful eyes to Hermione as she knelt beside her, lifting her beaded bag off her shoulder. She reached in and pulled out an enormous black leather satchel. Fleur's heart soared at the sight of the golden caduceus embossed on the side. She took it and quickly set to work. Ginny was there, watching proceedings carefully and seemed to come to a decision.

"Right, I'll go round up the rest, Fleur."

"Thank you," she said sincerely. Hermione turned to speak with the other boy and Fleur worked quickly. There was not enough time for Skele-Gro and the boy's leg was shattered. He needed care far beyond what she could provide. That said, she gave him potions for the pain and some to prevent the formation of clots in the bloodstream. She told him this and Hermione headed to fetch the elves. His friend with the broken arm was tended to as well and both left with an elf named Winkie, though reluctantly.

The next half hour blurred before her. She healed wounds and provided relief from pain. The bodies of the fallen were stacked in a room off the hall and house elves apparated noisily out with those worst injured. Many remained, however. One young woman had lost an eye and refused to leave. Another student broken his wrist and demanded it splinted rather than leave.

"It's not even my wand arm!" he said, cheerfully.

She treated dozens. Ginny would lead them to her or one of the other first aiders who would fix them or send them away. Few left, but the balance was filled by the piles of dead. They had to leave them, for the while. They had to leave them and wait to see what the dawn would bring. Hogwarts would prove a handsome cairn, though, if all failed.

As she worked, she thought of those she loved. Bill, with his broad shoulders and kind eyes, was off helping some of the stronger survivors to clear doorways and block stairwells. They were fortifying the castle as best they could in the time they had. Before he'd left, he'd dropped a kiss to her hair and patted her back. She ached at the thought of him dying; of his bright smile slipping from his face as Fred's had.

George stood with his mother, staying close to her as she doled out food and drink to those left. Fleur marvelled at her strength. How could she stand to do anything other than collapse after such loss? She watched as she touched the cheek of a slight girl from Hufflepuff, tears in her eyes. She would leave no other mothers suffering the way she did, Fleur realised. Her heart ached for her own mother, for her sister and father too. For the comfort. Her blood sang for her grandmother, for a host of veela to come and open the throats of the Dark Lord's troops.

Percy and Ginny moved through the hall, comforting and directing as necessary. She barely knew them, though they were technically her family. Now she'd likely die without ever knowing them. A soft chuckle behind her drew her attention to Hermione. She wished a young man good-bye before he and a weary looking house elf vanished.

Fleur touched her gently on the back and smiled at her. Hermione met her sorrow with her own, though there was sweetness there too. "It's almost time," she said. "Are you ready?"

Fleur nodded and stood, hauling the bag with her. Hermione took her elbow and led her into a side room, the same where Fleur had first eyed up her Triwizard competitors. Poor Cedric. His heart would have broken at the sight of this. She envied him, knowing that he'd never had to live through this war. She even missed Victor; big, clumsy Victor with his earnest belief in valour and bravery. She wished he were here too, to rally the troops and lead the charge. She let herself be led to a dark corner where Hermione took the bag from her and swished a screen around them.

"Don't tell me that was in your bag, too," she said, rubbing her tired eyes.

"No, of course not. Madame Pomfrey brought them from the infirmary," Hermione whispered. "The worst are in here."

"Then why are we?" Fleur asked, exhaustion finding her now that she had nothing to do. Her thoughts were muddled and she longed to lie down and sleep.

Hermione flushed. "I didn't think you'd want me to undress you in front of everyone."

Fleur's mouth gaped open and she released a little gasp of amazement. She brought her teeth together and felt her nostrils flare. One last time before their final battle? It seemed gloriously romantic. And horrifically inappropriate.

"Now is not the time or place, Hermione," she said sternly.

Hermione rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. Despite herself, she was blushing. "To heal your leg, Fleur. Your jeans are soaked with blood."

Fleur coloured with embarrassment and turned from Hermione, undoing her belt and buttons. "Well, of course. Thank you."

Hermione had to cut the jeans from her to get them off and hissed at the gaping wound in the back of her leg. Fleur lay on the floor on top of a blanket and closed her eyes. Soft hands cleaned her and Hermione spoke to her as she worked. It was incredibly soothing and she began to hum, wanting Hermione to hear her song again, just in case.

"It's dirty," she said, quietly, over the music of Fleur's voice, "and wide. It looks very painful. I, I didn't see Harry in there. I haven't seen him since we got back. I'm worried. I know he's going to go out and face you-know-who and I know I should stop him. I know he's going to die and I can't stop it."

Tears dripped onto Fleur's leg and she turned her face. "He will not die, Hermione."

Hermione swiped her tears away and shook her head. "No, you don't understand. He _has_ to. He's the last of them, the final one," she said, with such sadness that Fleur ached to hear it. "I think I've suspected it for some time, now. Since we started this. That's why I couldn't leave him. But I didn't believe it, not really, not until tonight. I think that he's going to his death and I can't stop him. I should be with him! I should have followed him… I just turned around and he was gone."

She began to weep and Fleur sat up, holding her tightly. Hermione's grip was fierce and almost painful. This talk disturbed her, all this nonsense about Harry having to die. What on earth did Hermione mean? Had the grief gotten to her?

"No, no," she said, kissing messy hair, "he is not for death tonight, Hermione. His future is with you and the ones he loves. He has known death his entire life and never surrendered. Why should he begin now, when he is so close to victory?"

"You don't understand. If I'm right," Hermione gulped, "he has to."

Fleur shook her head again. "You speak as if it is fated to happen, hmm? Well, we are masters of our own fate. He wants a family. Ginny, a home, perhaps children someday. He will make it so. We master our own destiny, my darling, all of us."

Hermione lifted teary eyes to Fleur's and regarded her seriously. "How can you still have hope, after tonight?"

"Because you are here," she said, softly and with love. She lowered her face and kissed Hermione gently. It was absurd. She was sitting half naked on the ground and they were ten minutes away from almost certain death. Hermione's face was wet with tears and she gasped as they opened to one another, breathing in each other's breath. She wound her fingers into Fleur's loose hair, pulling her close. Every part of Fleur responded eagerly. Her heart thumped against her ribs; her chest shook with the effort of drawing in breath. Her hands trembled and stomach clenched.

They drew apart after a few long moments. Fleur felt herself aching for the other woman, desperate to lay her down and spend the rest of their lives entwined together. Knowing how short that span would likely be, she took Hermione's face and stroked her cheeks with her thumbs.

"I love you," she said, quietly. "My heart cracked when I saw you arrive at my home and it filled with you. I fell in love with your strength and courage. With your warmth and resilience. I love you and I shall see you at the end of this battle, when we will celebrate victory."

She saw wonder in Hermione's eyes, her tears vanished. She looked as if she wanted to reply and opened her mouth.

"Fleur, I… I don't know what to say."

"Tell me when it's all over."

* * *

><p>As dawn's twilight brightened the sky, a thin and cruel voice lifted high with malevolent glee rolled over Hogwarts. Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened. The small noises which indicated activity faded as people stilled, dread filling their hearts.<p>

Harry was dead.

Fleur heard it, as did the woman in her arms, but she did not believe it. Hermione shook her head and almost wept once more but Fleur refused to listen. She stood and pulled her bloody jeans back on, quickly repairing the cuts. She soothed Hermione and pulled her to her feet, stroking her face and kissing her once before leading her out into the Great Hall.

"He's lying," Ginny said hotly, fists clenched by her sides. Fleur nodded in agreement and led Hermione to stand with her. The redhead saw Hermione's tears and gripped her shoulder. "He's lied since the day he could open his mouth. Why start telling the truth now? Come on, I'll kill the liar myself!"

Molly and Arthur's eyes were leaden with despair and the Weasley matriarch shook her head. "Ginny, no, please. Leave now, please. With the elves. Go to Muriel's or, or Bill's. Try to get out of the country, to France," she threw desperate eyes to Fleur, who nodded. Her mother would take her, of course, but none could force Ginny to leave.

"No, mum," she said, calmly. "Come on. Let's go and see what he has to say for himself." She turned and left; her brothers, Fleur and Hermione following her. Bill laid his hand on Fleur's shoulder and grinned when she turned to face him. She caught his eye and felt sorrow take her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What for?" he murmured back, glancing at Hermione with a small smile, "save your sorries for the Death Eaters. Actually, don't apologise, just batter them."

Fleur laughed and moved forward, keeping close to Hermione and Ginny. Ron fell in beside them and they led the march down the long hall. All joined them, some limping and others still oozing blood. All filed out, noble and brave despite their worry and dread. Here, Fleur knew, fear had been met and mastered. Courage burned in the hearts of all who followed Ginny, despite the horrors they'd seen and the terror that awaited them.

McGonagall met them at the door and did not advise Ginny to remain behind. She drew her wand and took the lead, making for the open doors. Across the courtyard, arrayed behind their master, stood hundreds of Death Eaters. They jeered and taunted them. Some gestured with their hands and others danced on the spot. Hermione's shoulders tensed and she gasped, having apparently spotted Hagrid in their midst.

Hagrid who was cradling the tiny, pathetic form of Harry Potter in his arms.

"NO!" screamed McGonagall, a hand flying to her mouth. Hermione and Ginny screamed too, both launching forward. Fleur grabbed them by their tops and hauled them back. Ginny twisted out of her grip and got all of three steps before Bill grabbed her around the waist, hanging onto her as she screamed Harry's name. Fleur had grasped Hermione securely and was sure she'd be deafened by her. Ron clung to Ginny as well and was calling for his best friend, voice raw with grief.

Fleur's heart thumped. It was over. They'd lost. She felt despair open beneath her and would have gladly succumbed had it not been for the woman in her arms. No. She'd remain strong for Hermione, to protect her now.

Voldemort silenced them and strode, crowing and gleeful, around Harry's limp form. Ron roared at him, taunted him, and all of Hogwarts raised their voices with him. When Fleur joined in, Hermione did too, casting scorn and disgust towards their foes.

The pale face of Voldemort was lit by the pre dawn light, delight on his face as he told them how Harry had tried to escape.

"No!" Hermione bit out, "he wouldn't!"

"Never!" came another voice and, off all people, Neville Longbottom broke from the crowd behind them and ran, wand raised, towards Voldemort. He was disarmed before anyone could move and lay in a pained heap on the ground. Fleur watched in wonder as the boy, who she remembered as quite timid, roared his defiance at Voldemort, every inch a Gryffindor lion. Pride rose in Fleur's chest and she joined her voice to the others again as they screamed at the vile figure before them, standing as one behind their unlikely spokesman.

Voldemort's reply was drowned out but his malicious intent clear when he placed a misshapen hat on the young man's head.

"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School," said Voldemort. "There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colours of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

"The Sorting Hat," Hermione whispered, "he's going to kill Neville! Fleur, let me go!"

Fleur grunted and shook her head, drawing her wand. She kept a tight hold of Hermione's arm and cast an eye to Bill, who copied her actions with Ginny. Ron drew his wand and stepped forward, many other following his example. The Death Eaters, almost as one, raised their wands and moved closer too.

Before disbelieving eyes, Voldemort lit the hat on Neville's head. The curse keeping him from moving did not prevent him from screaming and Fleur felt bile rise in her throat.

"We must act!" McGonagall hissed, "charge them on three! Everything you've got."

Fleur released Hermione entirely and lifted her wand, tensing her muscles to spring forward. "Stay close to me," she hissed at Hermione, "and Ginny. We must keep her safe."

Hermione nodded and leaned forward, ready to run. On the count of two, however, a cry rent the air and a giant came rumbling around the side of the castle, towards the _Death Eaters._ Fleur blinked and heard Hermione laugh with surprised relief. At the same time, Death Eaters fell and the defenders of Hogwarts were shocked to see arrows sticking out of them.

"Centaurs!" one boy called. Confusion reigned, albeit cautiously optimistic confusion, and McGonagall lifted her hand to pause the charge. Neville ripped himself from the curse holding him and flung the burning hat from his head. Fleur felt goose bumps run down her spine as he drew a glittering blade from the battered hat and swung it skilfully through the air, whipping it behind him. He stepped forwards, not towards the Dark Lord but to the _snake_ and, with a grace Fleur would not have thought possible for the lumpy lad, drew it in a quick, low arc. The snake rearing at him recoiled, its head flying from its twitching body. Heavy, muscular coils lashed spastically around the broken courtyard and Hermione and Ron cheered.

"It's done!" Ron shouted, "kill him! Get Voldemort! He can't stop us now!"

The crowd could not advance; Voldemort's giants were forcing the Death Eaters forwards. The centaurs had turned, their ranks forming for a charge and Fleur felt that the courtyard was about to get very, very crowded.

So did McGonagall, apparently. "Back! Back inside! Use Hogwarts! Gain high ground and pick them off when they come in!"

Hermione spun from her and grabbed Ron, who was beckoning the retreating Neville. Fleur saw a curse explode off a shield charm and wondered who the hell had cast it. She saw Hagrid bowling Death Eaters aside with great swipes of his fists, roaring at the centaurs to hurry up and charge. A hippogriff and the Hogwarts thestrals swooped in amongst the giants, goring their heads and faces.

Fleur ran forward and grabbed Neville's arm, Ron grabbing the other. They hurried inside, ducking into an alcove to one side. Hermione was already dropping dittany onto his singed ears.

"Wand!" he cried, "I need a wand!"

"Here," Hermione said, handing him Bellatrix Lestrange's hard wand. She'd brought it with her for no reason other than they had no others and a spare wand could mean the difference between life and death. "It belonged to that bitch outside who tormented your parents. But she never defeated them and you're their son! This is yours!"

Fleur wasn't sure if it was true, and she was certain the wand wouldn't believe her, but Neville's eyes hardened and he stood, sword in one hand and wand in the other. "Come on."

"Bloody hell, Neville," Ron said as they turned back to the Great Hall, "you're fucking ace, you know that?"

Fleur agreed wholeheartedly. They moved forward, watching in awe as witches and wizards poured in, routing the Death Eaters and screaming for their lost children. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grannies, uncles, cousins; entire families had come to their aid.

"En garde!" shouted a round little wizard and Fleur almost stumbled to a stop.

"Papa?" she called, incredulous. Her mother stood there too, sending curses at Death Eaters as they ran.

"Fleur!" her mother scolded in rapid French, "eyes in front! Your enemies are all around!"

"We have brought reinforcements!" her father chirped, bounding off.

And it was true. Dozens and dozens more witches and wizards were pouring in after the Death Eaters, roaring at them and hurling curses. A muscular red-haired, scarred man hurtled over the fallen form of a Death Eater, jinxed one and punched another in the face. A curse whizzed at his back but a shield charm absorbed it easily. The man who'd thrown it looked baffled before he was kicked in the face by an enormous young wizard on a broom. Fleur looked up and saw Victor and three other fliers dive into the midst of the chaos and leap off their brooms, roaring in Bulgarian.

A rough hand on the back of her collar tugged her back as centaurs roared through the door and she fell against Ron's chest. "Merci," she called, struggling upright.

"No worries," he called, delight in his pale blue eyes. "Did you see that? Charlie and Krum and the centaurs?"

Fleur was quite sure that she had not one ounce of surprise left in her but was proven badly wrong when a knobbly, bony little form pushed past her legs, scowling at the chaos.

"Kreacher!" Hermione shouted, "I thought the elves were staying with the wounded?"

"Healers arrived, so there was no need to stay. The need here was great. Stand aside!" he bellowed in his croaky voice. The little group did so and house elves poured out of the corridor, running after Kreacher who was shouting battle cries as he went.

"For Hogwarts!" he cried, "for master Regulus and Harry Potter!"

"For Hogwarts!" his troops echoed, throwing themselves into the battle with malicious glee.

They finally entered the Great Hall. In the chaos, it was hard to know exactly what was happening or who was winning. The size of the centaurs counted against them as they couldn't move without trampling their allies. A house elf leapt onto one and used him to launch itself at a Death Eater, bashing him in the face with a frying pan.

Hermione grabbed Fleur's elbow and tugged. "We have to get to Voldemort! He's as mortal as any of us, now! We have to finish it!" Despite not knowing precisely what that meant, Fleur pressed on, heading right for the centre of things. A howl sounded beside her and she was bowled aside by a snarling, grey lump of spite and fury. Sharp teeth closed on her upthrust arm and shook viciously. She kept her wand in a grim hold and, using all her strength, kneed Fenrir Greyback between the legs. His jaw tightened in spasm and she cried out in pain as he momentarily bit down harder before releasing her. One hand went to his scrotum and the other clumsily swung at her head. He didn't appear to want to release his wand but did want to throttle her. He leaned his arm across her throat and bore down.

She snarled and bit _him_ instead. _See how you like that, for a change!_ He jerked his arm back and fell to the side as he was cursed by Ron and then Neville. She nodded her thanks as Neville hauled her up and continued after his foe. She turned and felt her heart drop from her chest. Bellatrix had set her sights on Hermione, who was finishing off a masked Death Eater. She raised her wand and cackled.

"NO!" Fleur roared, rushing her from one side, just as Greyback had done to her. Hermione heard her shout and whirled around, eyes wide with terror. The pair landed heavily and Bellatrix swiped sharp nails over Fleur's forehead, sending hot, stinging blood into her eyes. She couldn't see where she was aiming and dared not let off a curse blind. Hermione screamed her name and Bellatrix formed the first word of the killing curse. She found herself lifted in the air, borne aloft and flung across the room, sailing through the air and jerking to a stop. Furious, she wiped the blood out of her eyes and squinted down. Bill and Charlie had obviously seen her zooming across the room and halted her.

"Ginny has good aim, doesn't she?" Charlie remarked with a wry smile. Bill healed her wounds and sent a blast of cold water at her face, washing the blood from it.

"Back to them! We have to, they're trying to kill Voldemort!"

The three pushed and shoved their way forward, watching each other's backs as they went and felling any Death Eater who crossed their path. Bill howled, which confused a pair who'd cornered an older wizard and they quickly fell at the grateful man's feet.

By the time they reached Bellatrix, Hermione and Luna were holding onto Ginny, eyes wide as they watched Molly Weasley duel the vile woman. Fleur and the boys ran forward, only to be sent back.

"She's after vengeance," Bill muttered.

"She'll have it," Fleur said, confidently before lights flared before her eyes and pain exploded in her head. She fell forward and received a sharp kick.

"She won't be the only one, you little whore!"

Bill roared again and threw himself at Greyback, slashing curses as he went. The great werewolf had apparently been disarmed by Ron and Neville but not killed. Fleur grimaced and lifted herself up. Apparently, they'd forgotten that most werewolves had the constitution of oxen.

Charlie stood behind her with yet another Death Eater and Fleur groped on the ground, searching for her wand. Her hand closed on an arrow and she frowned, continuing her search until she found her wand. She regarded the bloody arrow with curiosity and held it firmly. Greyback had thrown Bill to the ground and was advancing on all fours. He presented little in the way of a target and Fleur did not want to hit Bill. She reached up and tore her necklace from her, hissing in pain as it bit into her. She pressed the chain to the arrow head, whispering a charm to meld them together. The moonstone fell to the floor, forgotten immediately.

Bill's wand lay several feet from him and he held Greyback by the shoulders, trying to avoid his snapping jaws. Fleur saw her moment and leapt on his broad, powerful back, grabbing a handful of his greasy hair and pulling backwards sharply. The beast howled and rolled onto his back, knocking the wind from her lungs and cracking her head against the stone floor.

"Die, you accursed dog!" she hissed painfully, stabbing the head of the arrow into the side of his neck. He roared in anger and she pulled it upwards, feeling it slip free from his flesh. She stabbed again and felt a torrent of blood wash over her, foul smelling and acrid. His screams trailed off and he rolled to one side, pitifully whining and holding the ruin of this throat. He coughed and fell, dead beside her. She lay aching on the ground and moaned with pain.

"Shit, Fleur," Bill called, washing the blood from her and embracing her from behind, sitting her up. "Are you all right?"

"I've been better," she admitted. "And you need to learn how to summon _warm_ water, mon loup."

Then there was an awful laugh, which drew their attention back to events transpiring in the middle of the room. Fleur picked herself up and limped forwards, spying Ginny, Hermione and Luna rooted where she'd last seen them. She followed their gaze and saw Molly standing with a somewhat dazed look on her face, over the still and wide eyed form of Bellatrix Lestrange. As Fleur approached the group, Luna put a hand on Ginny's back. That was all the impetus she needed and she raced forwards, embracing her mother firmly.

A dreadful scream filled the air and Kingsley Shacklebolt flew backwards, thumping into Charlie. All moved to stand with Molly, arcing protectively around her with wands raised. The Dark Lord turned to them, utter hatred on his inhuman face and lifted his wand. Fleur felt the very air leave the space around them as power, evil and full of malice, filled the hall around Voldemort.

_He's going to kill us all with one stroke_, she thought, realising the foolishness of all standing together. She clenched her jaw and grabbed Hermione's hand, squeezing it firmly and feeling the other witch reply in like form. There were, Fleur mused with heavy regret, much worse ways to die.

The power flew at them but exploded against a shield before them, washing away like the ebbing surf. The glare faded and Fleur was utterly amazed to see Harry Potter standing, alive and well, in the middle of the hall. After a roar, silence fell.

And so Fleur, tightly gripping Hermione's hand, watched the most famous wizarding duel to ever happen, right before her own eyes.


	11. That Style is Obsolete

Dear Reader,

Well, here's the next chapter. Once again, thank you to everyone who took the time to review! It's really wonderful hearing what people have to think. So please, feel free!

* * *

><p>The morning sun dazzled Hermione as she ran towards Harry, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. Tears poured from her eyes as she laughed with him, burying her face in his grimy shoulder. Ron's long arms embraced them both, sobbing with delight as he gripped them. The cheers around them were deafening, a booming chant that filled the Great Hall even to the rafters. Throwing her face back and taking a shaky breath, she saw hats thrown up only to collide with joyously swooping owls.<p>

She found herself dislodged from about Harry's neck by Ginny and George, watching as the entire Weasley family swept in. She stepped back, cradled beneath Ron's arm, and turned around, dazed at the scene that surrounded them.

Hundreds of witches and wizards were pressing forward, all crying their relief. Rapturous applause mingled with Harry's name, chanted by several broomstick-mounted wizards trailing sparks through the shafts of morning light. She and Ron were shoved backwards from Harry and she caught sight of him looking slightly panicked. Ginny, however, had gripped his arm and showed no sign that she was going to move from his grateful side.

Her gaze moved again and she found herself caught in piercing blue eyes. Fleur was filthy and bloody, and oddly wet, but smiling at her despite her thoroughly dishevelled state. She was standing where Hermione had left her, lit by the light flooding in through a broken part of the wall.

_We did it_, Hermione thought, bewildered by the notion. They'd done it. Voldemort lay on the dusty ground, now nothing more than the vacant shell of Tom Riddle. The monster who'd haunted them for longer than she, and many others, had been alive was no more. Overwhelmed, she looked back to Fleur and saw her smile widen. The blonde witch lifted a casual hand to her, waving shakily.

But as her hand drew level with her face, Fleur looked at it as if she'd never seen the appendage before in her life. Despite the distance and the layer of grime liberally covering her, Hermione could easily discern Fleur's sudden chalky pallor. She stumbled, sinking to sit awkwardly on the stone floor, holding herself upright with no small effort.

Hermione was utterly numb as she ran forward, unaware that she'd even moved until she was kneeling before the other witch.

"Fleur!" she called, firmly, "are you all right?"

Fleur turned to her, blinking slowly. Her gaze glassy, she could only open her eyelids with great effort. Hermione reached out for her, terror filling her as Fleur slumped forwards against her.

_No! No! Please, no! Don't you dare!_

She held her tightly and pressed a shaking hand to Fleur's chest. Fleur was taller and heavier than her, a dead weight against her shoulder making it difficult to manoeuvre. Her hand was so unsteady that she couldn't tell if she felt a pulse or not and she opened her mouth to call for help.

_You are absolutely not allowed to die now!_

"Help!" she called, croaking feebly around the grief strangling her. She felt tears build and cleared her throat, opening her mouth to call again.

"Ah," an accented voice sighed beside her, "what has she done to herself now?"

Hermione turned to find Fleur staring at her. An older Fleur, with longer hair and less adherent filth but Fleur none the less.

_No. No, her eyes…_

Apolline Delacour sported a wry smile on her face and she gently touched Hermione's shoulder. "Come now, let us see her."

Monsieur Delacour was there to conjure a pillow for his daughter's head, clucking his tongue. He and his wife gently laid her on her back, her head rolling to one side nervelessly. "I shall fetch a healer!" he announced before bounding off.

Apolline touched Fleur's forehead, brushing her hair back gently. "She cut her hair," she said, wistfully. "Why…"

Whatever Hermione was going to say, or avoid saying, was interrupted by the appearance of Bill on Fleur's opposite side. His blue eyes were wide with fear but calmed after he placed his hand on her chest. It was lifted evenly by quiet breaths and he let out a shaky laugh. Hermione watched with rapt attention and was so relieved to see this proof of life that she felt dizzy.

"She does love to scare people," he muttered.

"William," Apolline said, fondly, "I am glad to see you unharmed."

Bill looked up, apparently only then realising the identity of the pair of women beside his wife. He smiled crookedly at his mother in law and shrugged one shoulder.

"No more scars to add," he said with some humour. He turned to Hermione and his face softened. She felt her own burn, despite the fact that she was much too exhausted to be embarrassed, and she looked away. From the corner of her eye, she saw him smile and shake his head. "You found trouble, after all?"

Hermione felt her eyebrows fly up, not quite expecting that. "What?"

"What?" he teased, looking back to Apolline. "_What_, she says. She only destroyed Gringott's, rode a dragon over London, snuck into Hogwarts and ended up battling against You-Know-"

"Voldemort," Hermione interrupted, somewhat startling herself. "No, not anymore," she mused, only vaguely aware of the shocked looks she was receiving. "Tom Riddle. Nothing more than a man. One who's gone forever."

"He is, isn't he?" Bill marvelled. He lifted his hand and turned around to survey the Great Hall. Hermione joined him, taking in the riotous knot of people surrounding Harry, the little groups on the periphery of the celebrations and the bright morning light pouring in through broken windows. She found it incredibly surreal. Never had she imagined that the final battle would be fought in Hogwarts. Never had she imagined that when the time came, she and the boys wouldn't be alone. Their friends had stood bravely with them in a place that was home to so many. It was overwhelming and she was glad to be away from the centre of attention. She caught sight of Ron being embraced by Charlie and patted firmly on the back by Victor and couldn't help but smile at the wide, teary grin on his face.

But there was profound sorrow in the Hall, too. Medi-wizards and witches from St Mungo's were rushing into the Hall, bright green robes pristine amongst the destruction. Madame Pomfrey rushed to them and with great urgency, drew half after her. The rest hurried to tend to the fallen in the Hall. Hermione hoped, desperately, that they'd come to Fleur soon. She saw Monsieur Delacour heading towards a pair and sighed with relief.

The pervading sorrow mingled with lingering fear in some parts of the Hall. People were standing around their fallen enemies, amazed at their defeat and unsure of how to proceed. There were several parents standing where Voldemort had fallen, grief and anger overtaking their fear. Someone had thrown a cloak over the pathetic figure and a few took it upon themselves to move the corpse from the Hall. Hermione wondered what they'd do with him and found she couldn't bring herself to care, at this juncture.

Instead, she looked back down at Fleur, realising that she was still gripping her hand firmly. Her blonde hair was darkened by blood in several places and her eyelids were grey, dark bags shining beneath them. Her hand was utterly slack in Hermione's, betraying no flicker of movement. Hermione's heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest as she watched Fleur, willing her to open her eyes. She was captivated by the flutter of a pulse on the side of her long neck; by the assurance it provided that the other witch's heart still moved within her breast. It gave her comfort; she knew well how powerfully that heart could beat when needed.

Apolline touched her back. "Please, the Medi-witch is coming."

Hermione turned, blinking stupidly at the other woman, not quite comprehending the statement. She was so exhausted that she could do no more than react to each moment as it came, unable to string coherent thought together. She carefully released Fleur's hand, setting it on her stomach so it wouldn't be marred by the filthy ground.

She was batted rudely aside by several people in green robes and would have fallen backwards, had it not been for Fleur's mother's sure hands. She was led to stand and did so on shaky, coltish legs, staring down at Fleur's slack face.

"What happened to her?" she asked finally, turning to Apolline. She was remarkably similar to Fleur except perhaps a bit taller. Her eyes were terribly pale, almost violet in the morning light, though. They weren't the rich, crystalline, warm eyes she'd come to know so well. But they were kind and held a familiar spark of humour and compassion.

"Well, she was fighting Fenrir for one thing," Bill said, standing beside the pair of them. "He landed on her at one stage, gave her a right wallop."

Apolline frowned and shook her head. "The werewolf? Sometimes, I do not know what goes on in her head, William." She moved to Bill and kissed both of his cheeks. She stood before him, her hands on his upper arms. "I am glad to see you," she said, with great sincerity.

"Likewise," Bill said, quietly. Hermione felt incredibly awkward, intrusive in the intimate scene, and wanted nothing more than to flee and find Harry. However, Bill caught her eye and smiled wanly. "You remember Hermione Granger, from the wedding?"

Apolline turned curious eyes to her and nodded. "You are Mr Potter's friend. You left quite abruptly." There was deep sorrow in her expressive eyes, though it was laced with gratitude, and she placed a gentle hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Thank you. Molly told me of your skills and how you would help him. I see you were not idle."

Hermione blinked, not quite knowing how to respond. Of course she'd helped Harry, who wouldn't have? She didn't know what to say to that; how to respond to such undeserved gratitude. Instead she nodded, earning a smile and a fond squeeze.

"Excuse me," one of the Medi-wizards called, gruffly, "we need to move her to a bed." He looked up at Hermione. "You a student here?"

"Um, yes, no. I was," she stammered. He rolled his eyes.

"Can you get us into a dormitory?" he snapped, "she's not ill enough for the infirmary but she needs somewhere to rest. We've fixed her up, she'll be fine, just needs a few hours sleep."

Hermione nodded, faint with relief, and the Medi-wizard turned to speak to his colleagues. Himself and one other remained with Fleur while the rest bustled off to aid others. As they turned to go, Hermione saw that embossed on the back of each green robe was a large red cross. The Medi-wizard levitated Fleur off the ground and nodded to Hermione who made for the exit. The little group moved quickly through the dreadful devastation of Hogwarts. Hermione led them towards Gryffindor, though it was far away. Part of her assured herself that it was logically the safest place to go but in her heart knew that she craved the familiarity and safety of the tower. She would entrust no other place to guard Fleur at the moment.

So they climbed, Hermione and Bill leading the little group and Fleur's father bouncing along in their wake. Few paid them any heed; no one was idle and all had worries of their own. They reached the Fat Lady's portrait and she was so delighted to see Hermione that she spilled half a flute of champagne over Violet and a short, bald wizard.

"I don't know the password-"

"Oh my dear girl, never mind!" she thrilled, "you're most welcome here! You always will be!"

Hermione couldn't help but smile at that. "I have some guests, we need to find a bed for someone who's injured. There might be more groups like this later," she said, frowning at the notion. "Please, let them in too."

"Of course! Of course," she said, swinging open. They crawled through the circular hole into a largely empty common room. Several students were sitting in front of the fire, holding each other as they mourned. They looked up to see who was invading their peace and gasped when they saw Hermione.

"Hermione!" Fay Dunbar called, running forwards and hugging her tightly. "Oh, thank goodness you're safe." Hermione was slightly taken aback but more so when one of the boys threw his arm around her shoulders.

"Well done, Granger!" Thomas Paley boomed.

She stammered a thank you, slightly overwhelmed. She'd known Fay for years, having shared a dormitory with her, and they hadn't been particularly close. But genuine happiness was shining in the lanky witch's eyes and her embrace had been heartfelt. She drew back from both of them, finding the treatment quite disconcerting. But times were strange and she'd made less-likely friends since last she stood in the Gryffindor common room.

The Medi-wizard cleared his throat, startling her back into the moment.

"Oh, yes. Are there any spare beds anywhere?"

"Well, there's some in most of the dormitories," Fay said sadly. "With the muggle borns not being allowed back, you see."

"Right," the rather brusque Medi-wizard called, "pick one and tell us how to get there. Chop, chop!"

He was given directions and started on his way, Fleur levitating after him as he stomped to the stairs. Bill called to him to wait and ascended the first few steps himself before being unceremoniously dumped on his backside when the stairs folded together.

"Well, seems _some_ of the castle defences are still intact," he observed, wryly.

"Bloody Gryffindors," the Medi-wizard grumbled. "You know, we never needed anything like that to keep us out of the girls' rooms. Right, Flo, can you sort her out?"

"No problem," the Medi-witch said, nodding firmly before turning to Apolline. "Are you her mother? Would you come with me, please?"

They ascended the stairs and the Medi-wizard bustled out through the portrait hole, grumbling all the way. Hermione rubbed her face and turned to the pair of students. "Make out a list of empty beds, please. You never know who might be in need."

"Right-o," Thomas said. "See you later, then?"

Hermione blinked and looked at the stairs. Half of her wanted nothing more than to chase after Fleur and the others while the other half desperately wanted to find the boys. The conflict must have been written plainly on her face because Bill cleared his throat, dipping his head to catch her eye.

"They'll be a while," he said. "Why don't you go and find Harry and Ron? I'll see about removing that bloody enchantment. It's nothing more than a nuisance right now."

"Fleur's-"

"In capable hands," he said, gently. He stepped closer to her and clasped her shoulder. "Let the Medi-witch do her job. It looks like she's going to be asleep for a while, too."

Hermione dropped her face, feeling tears well. Of course she wasn't welcome now. The war was over; the desperation that had driven Fleur and herself together had passed them by. They weren't hiding in isolation anymore. They were in the centre of the magical world and those from whom they'd been sundered were back. What place had she, when Fleur had her parents and husband? She felt incredibly tired at the thought and wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and sleep. Perhaps Fay could tell her if her own bed was going spare?

But Bill placed his other hand on her other shoulder, holding her firmly.

"Listen, I know that you've just been through hell, pet," he said quietly, "but you need to go down to the Hall. There's a lot of people there who need to see you. People who, like me and your mates, are going to be so _relieved_ to see you're safe. They need that, right now. And the celebration down there is happening because of what Harry did. But we all played a part, you more than most. You deserve to share in a bit of that."

Hermione blinked back her tears and looked up at Bill, incredulous. "Bill, I didn't do anything. It was Harry."

Bill chuckled. "You are far too humble, you know?" He sighed, a wry smile on his face. "Go on, will you? How often are you going to celebrate victory over the forces of evil, eh? Go down for a bit and then come up to see us."

Hermione nodded and stepped backwards, managing a small, wobbly smile. There was so much she wanted to say to Bill but she knew that now was not the time. She bid him good-bye and headed to the portrait hole.

"Hermione," he called, softly. She stopped with one knee in the tunnel and turned to him.

"Do come up to us. Fleur would want you to," he said, an inscrutable expression on his face. "Anytime, right?"

She nodded dumbly, not knowing how to respond. She scrambled into the dark portrait passage and was tempted to stay there for a while. She'd never felt so frazzled or confused. Her wits seemed scattered to the four winds and she craved quiet and, denied the chance to sit with Fleur, solitude.

But she pressed on through the tunnel despite her heartache and stumbled directly into Ron.

"Hermione," he sighed with relief, setting her upright. "You all right? Is Fleur?"

"She's fine, I think. The Medi-witch is putting her to bed now."

"What happened? You pelted off so quickly, I didn't realise you were gone. Had to ask around," he said, nodding towards the stairs. Hermione folded her arms around her aching body and followed him, glad for his familiar presence as they wandered down.

"I saw her collapse, so I went over to her," she said, "I thought…" She could not bear to give voice to what she'd thought. "She just collapsed, Ron."

"I'm surprised more didn't, really," he sighed. "I felt like it, myself."

She laughed softly, moving around piles of rubble. They were silent for the rest of the journey to the Great Hall, content to wander through the welcome quiet around them. As they descended, they found Peeves whizzing around gleefully, swooping through the air and laughing at the top of his voice. Light filled the great castle, admitted through broken windows and shattered walls. The air was full of dust catching that golden sunlight and dancing in it as it warmed the castle. Debris littered the floors, covered in thick dust which swirled around her feet as she walked. Nearing the Hall, shouts and happy voices rose. The cacophony grew more complicated as they neared, though, as the low sounds of grief and loss became audible. Despite the jubilation around them, Hermione still felt her heart sink. There had been so _many_ injured and killed. So many lost.

She ignored the bloody patches on the floor as best she could. The omnipresent dust had coated them and strange patterns had formed before the puddles had congealed. Already, vibrate red had faded to rusty browns or oily blacks. How quickly life fled.

They entered the Hall slowly, Hermione stopping entirely on the threshold. She understood what Bill had meant, intellectually, but the crush of humanity, the presence of so many, was overwhelming. She wanted nothing more than peace and quiet, the respite that could be found at Fleur's bedside. Ron gently took her elbow and led her to sit close to the door, at the very bottom of Gryffindor table.

She saw Neville sitting with the sword of Gryffindor beside him, utterly bemused by the attention he was receiving from the group gathered around him. Here, at the end of the Hall and without the advantage of the dais, there was little to see. People milled around, some taking huge platters of sandwiches from house elves and distributing them. She could see Hagrid, towering over all others in a cloud of steam, fumbling with a huge copper kettle.

She sighed tiredly and Ron slid an arm around her shoulders. She rested her head against him and closed her eyes.

"It's over," she said, softly.

"Yeah," he replied, equally quietly. "Weird, isn't it? It's over and we're mostly all still here."

His voice trembled and she slid an arm around his waist, her heart sore at the sorrow and loss in his voice. "Ron, I'm so sorry."

"It's just… It's just so random," he said, his voice small. She gazed over the Hall, at the movement of people through it. She felt so far away from them, from their victory, when Fred and so many others lay dead. "I mean, it could have been anyone, but it was him," he said, voice cracking.

"And Lupin and Tonks," he continued, wavering, "I mean, it's not fair. We, we were the good guys, Hermione. We were the ones doing the right thing. Why did _we_ have to lose so many people? It's not fair."

She closed her eyes and sighed. Ron was trembling against her, dusty and exhausted. He sounded so young, then. Memories danced behind her eyes and she felt her heart clench.

"I mean, maybe they'll come back," he said, openly weeping. "Maybe they'll be ghosts. Fred, I reckon he'd love to haunt Hogwarts, wouldn't he?"

Hermione took a deep breath, unsure of what to say. Unsure of what would bring comfort or unintended harm. She felt, deep within her, that Fred and the others would not return. They'd fought bravely for their friends, knowing fully the risks involved. "Maybe, Ron," she said, quietly, unable to add to his hurts, "I don't know."

They were quiet then for a long time. Ron rested his head over hers and she felt some measure of peace; some comfort. They watched the celebrations and caught snippets of conversation. Many approached them, congratulating and thanking them, but none stayed for more than a moment or two.

_They think we're together, she mused, and they don't want to disturb us._

Well, she was more than willing to allow that little misconception to live briefly on if it meant she didn't have to talk to anyone for a while. She closed her eyes again, thinking about Ron and his actions during the battle. He'd been so brave and noble. Though he'd been crazed with rage and the desire for vengeance, he'd set it aside in order to finish their quest. He'd even suggested sending the House Elves to safety, something that had earned him an impromptu kiss on the cheek.

He was almost, she thought, the man he wanted to be and he didn't have a clue. He'd grown so much in the past year, she mused. She was glad to share the moment with him, to watch the world realise it was free from the disease that had plagued it for such a long time. She hoped he could see the part he'd played; now his actions had helped to bring them to this point.

She let her mind drift a bit more, unable to grasp thoughts for more than a second or two. Her heart felt scalded after all that had happened, racing with thoughts and memories only half-recalled. She was with her friend, and very happy to be there, but laughing blue eyes kept catching her. The memory of affection and warmth and love filled her, terrifying her as it thrilled her.

_She said she loves me._

No one, aside from her parents, had ever told her that before and she didn't quite know how to react. She'd been busy enough trying to ignore what had happened on the beach because as joyous as it had been, it could never happen again. But if it was never to be repeated, if they were to part now and never revisit those wonderful hours, why had Fleur said that? Why had she kissed her?

_She thought we were going to die. It doesn't mean anything._

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft, weary voice behind her ear. "It's me," Harry said, invisible beneath his cloak. She drew apart from Ron and stretched, stiff after sitting. "Will you come with me?"

"Certainly, Harry," she said, standing and wincing at the pains that lanced through her. She'd never felt more battered than she did now, not even when she'd arrived in Shell Cottage. There, at lease, she could point to one or two places that pained her.

The dust swirled in the wake of Harry's cloak, leaving him quite easy to follow. They climbed stairs half destroyed and were treated to Peeve's cheerful but slightly tasteless singing.

Once they were in a quiet part of the school, Harry lifted the cloak from him, folding it over his shoulder and pausing. Hermione had never seen him so tired, so weary, before. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed behind his dirty glasses. He seemed as bewildered as she felt; unable to truly believe, despite the festivities below, that it was actually _over_.

"You all right, mate?" Ron asked, clasping his arm gently. He too seemed unable to process what he was feeling; the great confusion they now found themselves lost in.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, softly. "Knackered, just."

"Don't blame you," Ron muttered. A smile spread over his face, his pale eyes twinkling. "You were bloody brilliant, you know that?"

Harry merely shrugged. "Seems surreal, you know. Like it's not really happened."

"It did, don't worry, saw it with my own eyes," Ron assured him. "What was all that about Snape, though?"

Harry took a deep breath before he spoke. He told them all that he'd seen in the Pensieve, all of Severus Snape's most deeply buried secrets. It was incredible, almost unbelievable, but as Hermione listened, things finally began to make sense. It explained so _much_, though her tired mind was not capable of pulling every thread together.

"So his Patronus was the doe," Ron marvelled, "wow. I wasn't expecting that. He really was helping us. Mind you, he could have put it anywhere but the bottom of a frozen pond."

"The sword had to be taken under adverse conditions," Hermione reminded, her heart thumping erratically in her breast. The memory of dark little eyes in a flat silvery head filled her and she found herself unable to move her legs. Fleur's patronus had taken the same form as her own when it stood protecting her. Her hands trembled and her breath caught.

_This is too much,_ she thought, _I can't cope with all this right now._

She pushed those tumultuous, those incredible and terrifying feelings away and listened as Harry spoke about his experience in the forest. Herself and Ron were silent as he spoke, holding their breath as they listened to the tale. Her heart broke anew when he'd told them how he'd realised that he was a Horcrux, alone in Dumbledore's office. Tears welled and never before had she felt more dreadful about being correct.

He'd spoken then of being struck, for the second time in his life, with the killing curse and how the fragment of Voldemort that had lived within him had been destroyed. How he'd spoken with Dumbledore and how, though he found it difficult to speak of in all but the most generalised manner, he'd made the choice to come back rather than rest with his loved ones. Hermione's heart had felt fit to burst at that, knowing that her friend had chosen to return to them.

By the time they'd reached the headmistress's office, she was utterly spent. So much had happened to her in the previous two days that her mind was in complete disarray. In quick succession, she'd had an incredibly intimate and personal experience before being involved in a series of events that had changed their world. From the innermost parts of her to then outermost, she'd had to give _everything_ within her.

Hollow, she'd barely flinched when the former heads of Hogwarts had cheered Harry. She'd been profoundly relieved, and very proud, when he'd chosen to repair his own wand rather than keep the Elder. After many rounds of applause, they'd staggered out of the office and towards Gryffindor. Thomas and Fay had directed them back to their own beds and Hermione had held the boys once more before climbing the stairs.

Aching exhaustion pulled at her, worse than any she'd felt in her life. Worse than after Malfoy Manor and the sleepless nights that followed. She was a floor beneath her dormitory when Apolline Delacour stepped out into the stair way and spied her.

"Ah, my dear," she said fondly, "you look exhausted. Are you going to bed?"

She nodded, eyes heavy. "Is Fleur all right?"

"She's asleep," the tall woman replied. "Apart from exhausting herself, she suffered several broken ribs. They are repaired, though still she sleeps."

Hermione took that in. She was relieved that Fleur wouldn't have to suffer the same pain she had. She remembered for a moment those early days in Shell Cottage, when two near strangers had been thrown together. When she'd been met with unexpected kindness and care. Suddenly, despite her exhaustion, she longed to see Fleur. She blinked up at Apolline and cleared her throat.

"Would I… Is it all right if...?"

Apolline smiled fondly. "But of course. In here."

Fleur was lying on her back in one of the beds, drapes half pulled around it. Her hair had been washed and her right arm sported an impressively large bandage. She was breathing softly and deeply, still sleeping. Frozen at the sight, Hermione did not move until Apolline gave her a nudge forward.

She sat in a chair beside the bed at Apolline's gentle urging and saw Fleur's sooty eyelashes resting on her cheek. She was beautiful, she thought, but in the way that a statue or a painting was beautiful. The humour, cheer and vitality that was such an essential part of Fleur was absent and she found it disconcerting. Her true beauty was absent and Hermione found herself missing it dreadfully.

"Did she wake up yet?" she whispered.

"No, not yet. She is very tired. As are you," she said firmly. Hermione looked to her, desperate to stay for even a minute longer. The other witch obviously understood her silent pleading and sighed. "I shall fetch you something to eat before you retire. Would you be so kind as to sit with Fleur?"

"Thank you," Hermione said, softly. Apolline left and Hermione moved her chair close to Fleur's bedside. It was a wing-backed armchair out of the common room and she was pathetically glad that someone had brought it up. She kicked off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her, reaching out to take Fleur's left hand. They were close enough that it was not much of stretch and Hermione held it in both hands, running her fingers over the back, drinking in the comfort of their proximity.

It was so different, she thought, from sitting with Ron. With him, they'd both sought shelter from a raging storm. With Fleur, she was in a sun-filled meadow. Her eyes slid shut and she listened to Fleur's breathing, feeling a little pulse flutter beneath her fingers.

_Do you really love me, or were you just caught up in the moment? In the battle?_

She felt herself drift to sleep, the weight of anxiety and exhaustion falling from her arms as she did. She felt suspended, weightless as she sunk into slumber. A soft laugh sounded beside her ear and ethereal lips brushed her cheek. She heard a soft voice speak to her but could not make out the words.

Sleep stole over her then, and she knew peace for a while.

* * *

><p>Fleur slowly became aware of quiet voices in the space around her. She felt sick to her stomach and her head throbbed in time with her pulse. The world was bright beyond her eyelids, which she found utterly offensive. Finally opening her eyes, two familiar and beloved faces swam into focus. Bill was as dishevelled as ever she'd seen him and Hermione's face was bruised and abraded in several places. The other witch was blinking owlishly, as if she too had only just awoken. She was handed a large glass of water and drank deeply.<p>

"All right, pet?" Bill asked, taking her hand gently. She noticed it was wrapped in a clean bandage and wondered why. Bill chuckled and shook his head. "Chasing a werewolf _and_ Bellatrix in one night, eh?"

She blinked and memories flooded her mind. It was amazing, she mused, how much could happen in so short a time. She blinked again, looking around the room she was in. It was semicircular, with a black stove set in the middle and five beds arrayed around the walls. Great windows admitted bright sunlight and warm air, lazily moving the valance above the curtains. "You forget the spiders. And the giant."

"Oh, well, pardon me," he said, lifting her hand and kissing it gently. His smile softened. "I'm glad you're all right. You were pretty dinged up, you know. You're made of stern stuff."

"I am," she croaked. She lifted her other hand and touched Hermione's face gently. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine," she reassured, blushing prettily. Fleur took her hand and held it tightly, so glad to see the other witch alive and well it almost brought tears to her eyes. Bill rolled his own and handed Hermione Fleur's other hand.

"I can see who she'd rather have wait on her," he said, softly but with humour. Fleur scoffed but Hermione's face adopted a deathly pallor. She opened her mouth dumbly and tears welled. She looked away from both of them, shame on her face. Bill lifted his eyebrows and balked at Fleur's angry glare.

"Hermione," he said quietly, leaning over Fleur's supine form, "I'm teasing. Please don't be upset."

Hermione seemed too afraid to open her mouth, the reality of what had happened apparently catching up with her. Guilt was plainly written on her face and it broke Fleur's heart to behold. But she was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. She'd just fought in a battle, after all, and was in no mood for another.

She'd killed someone. She could still hear Greyback's harsh breathing and smell his sharp odour. She could still feel his greasy hair and his blood hot on her hand. Could hear the cough he'd made as he died rattling through her head. She closed her eyes briefly, unwilling to examine the memory for the time being.

"Please, none of this," Fleur said, weary beyond belief. "Not now."

"Well, it might be the time for a bit of it," Bill said, voice slightly tremulous. He stood and walked around to Hermione's side, laying a hand on her elbow gently. He spoke quietly and hesitantly, fear and sorrow in his bright eyes. "Fleur told me about what happened. And why it needed to happen. You stayed alive, you kept Harry alive and now we're all here, battered and bruised but here nonetheless. I understand, love. It's all right."

Hermione turned wide eyes to him, clearly terrified. "I, I'm… I'm sorry, Bill."

"Don't be," he said fondly. "You and Fleur and I will have a long talk when we're all feeling better. But you didn't do any wrong, do you hear? There's things you don't know, that we can tell you now."

Hermione nodded slowly and raised her eyes again. "You, how can you be so kind? After what happened?"

Bill smiled widely and ran a hand through his messy hair. "Because I love the daft girl, that's why. Anyway, now isn't the place or time, right? Later."

He left with a sad smile on his tired face. Hermione shook her head and turned back to Fleur, wretchedly unhappy. "How? I don't understand! I made a cuckold of him and he doesn't care?"

"Hermione," Fleur sighed, "I told you that I would be honest with him from the start. He knew what the alternative possibilities were."

The brunette witch shook her messy hair. "But how is he not jealous? I'd be so _angry_ if it were me… I wouldn't be able to speak to me. Does it not matter to him, because I'm not a man? Is that it?"

Fleur sighed again and closed her eyes. "In a way, yes. But please, it is not something that is easy to talk about. And I am very tired."

Hermione relented, quieting for the time being. She adjusted Fleur's blankets and took her left hand again, running her thumb over the back of her knuckles idly. Fleur felt herself slipping into a deep slumber and drew a shaking breath. She found herself falling into a dream, a memory from recent times, from the first time she'd mentioned her plan to Bill.

* * *

><p>Bill's normally pale face was ashen. He looked as if he'd been slapped.<p>

"Are you joking with me?" he asked, quietly. "You've come up with a way of protecting her and all you need to do is have sex with her?"

Fleur frowned. When he put it so baldly, it sounded tawdry. illicit.

"In essence, yes," she said, folding her arms. "You know how powerful these things are, Bill; blood and sex. Who knows what she will need to defend against?" Tears welled in her eyes, reminded of the awful wounds inflicted by Bellatrix.

Bill sank onto their bed, shaking his head. "I didn't realise you felt that way about her. Or she you."

Fleur sat beside him, cradling her head in her hands. "I care deeply for her. She feels an attraction to me, as I do for her."

"Fleur," he sighed, "she's a teenager! She's still in secondary school! And she's incredibly vulnerable. I mean, she's been through hell and now, the one person who's given her some comfort is asking for this from her? It's too much!"

Fleur shook her head. She didn't feel that explicitly enumerating the age differences between them all would be helpful. "To me, it seems like an offer, not a request."

Bill scoffed. "No. Don't lie about that part. This is something you want yourself and you've found a way to justify it. Merlin!" he cried, throwing his hands up and standing. "This is just like when we started working together. You want someone so you just go for it, inventing reasons why it's a good idea even when it isn't. Well, this is a very, very bad idea. You're taking advantage of her."

"No!" she bit, standing too, casting a silencing charm around them, "I would not!"

"But you are!" he shouted, irritation clearly building, "you are and this could hurt her badly, Fleur. It won't just be some roll in the hay for her."

Fleur closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and gathering her courage. Well, now or never. "What if it's the same for me? What if I care for her too? Deeply? But it doesn't matter. It will be only one night."

Bill was quiet then, peering at her shrewdly. "One night. The power of a rare thing? Like Lily spoke about. That's even more cruel, you know, for someone like her."

"We all have to live with heartache, Bill," she said, gazing sadly at him. He ducked his head, cheeks reddened. "But if she is at least alive, then it will be worth it."

Bill was quiet then for a long while. "What about Ron? My little brother. How'd you think he'll feel when he finds out about this? He isn't as bloody open minded as I am. What if he turns his back on her because of this?"

"Then he isn't quarter the man you are," she said, "and he certainly doesn't deserve her affection. At the end of the day, she is an adult. More than that, she's her own person. She can decide herself what she wants to do. She will make someone very happy, someday."

Bill sat back down. "And do you want that person to be you?"

Fleur was silent. It was too big a question to answer so she walked to the window and looked out over the sea.

Bill heaved another great sigh. "A once off event? Why? What?"

"That is how these spells work, you know that. The first of many doesn't have the same power." She frowned, flushing. "As to the what, must you really ask?"

Understanding dawned on Bill's face and he shook his head. "This is dangerous, Fleur. Risky stuff. Old stuff. She'll figure it out."

"Of course she will," Fleur agreed, "she is too bright not to. But it will not matter by then."

He was silent for a long time before he spoke again. "I think this is a terrible idea. I think that you're going to hurt her and," he sighed, "and I don't think I can support you in this. You know I love you, but this is a stupid plan."

Fleur closed her eyes, tears welling up. Would she lose him in all this, too? "Will you stop me?"

"No." He said softly. "But I do reckon it's grounds for divorce."

* * *

><p>When she awoke, Hermione was gone. The light in the dormitory was red with evening's glow and she blinked sleepily. She felt much better than before, almost able to face the world again. A page rustled to her right and she turned, surprised to see her father there.<p>

"Ah, my sleeping beauty is awake, I see!" he said happily. "Mon chou, I am so proud of you! I heard all you did during this battle. How brave of you! How noble!"

"Papa," she said, smiling happily. His presence as well as the familiarity of being able to speak in her native tongue were unexpectedly sweet. "You came to help."

"Of course we did!" he said, as if offended that she'd ever thought he wouldn't. "When the alarm was raised, we had our duty on the continent. Few Death Eaters could Apparate such a distance, so they used port keys, floos and the like to assemble. We knew about a number of these and were guarding them. We spent the night rounding up all we could before heading to Hogsmeade. We did not imagine that they would gather and attack so quickly," he said, somewhat sadly. "We would have just destroyed the port keys then, rather than try to capture as many as we could."

"But you still came, with many others."

"Yes. The Wild Geese!" he said, proudly. "Scattered, we spread the word and rallied support where we could. Dumbledore was well-regarded at home and it was not difficult. But we were not able to move into the country until last night, when those of our allies ministry could once again open the path for us."

Fleur took that in, sitting upright in bed. So their friends had come, as quickly as they could. She was glad to hear it, pleased that they'd not been forgotten or left as sacrificial lambs.

"Your friend left an hour ago to check on the others. She is very kind," her father remarked. "And loyal. She was by your side all day, though she slept for much of it. Almost like Gabrielle."

"Nothing like Gabrielle," Apolline Delacour interjected, smiling at the pair as she rounded the door. "Hermione Granger seems much quieter and sensible than our poor, rowdy daughter."

Fleur smiled at her mother and looked around the room they were in. It was a dormitory, probably Gryffindor, judging by the predominance of red and gold. She couldn't remember getting there and she supposed she'd fainted. How dreadfully embarrassing. Her mother stood beside her husband and looked down at her with a serious expression on her face.

"Your grandmother is here," she said. "I asked her to wait, but she has asked to speak to you after dark."

Fleur's eyes almost fell out of her head. "Here? Gra-mere is here?"

"In the forest," her mother replied. "She led two score of her sisters against the spiders and other dark creatures. The Dementors of Azkaban put up a dreadful fight but they are vanquished. They spent the day routing many of them."

Fleur was stunned. "I have never heard of them leaving their forest to do battle."

"My mother knew what was at stake and was able to persuade her tribe. She also knew that they could not fight alongside the rest of us, the veela bewitch and enthral indiscriminately as well you know. She took the rearguard, ensuring that the spiders did not emerge. She also captured many of the Death Eaters who tried to flee to the forest."

Fleur frowned. "Voldemort was in the forest. For much of the night."

"They arrived with us, cherie. Later than we would have liked. They saw the dark army leave, but Dementors lurked in the trees. They knew then where their battle would be fought."

Fleur took that in, remembering that she'd wished for such things during the heat of battle. Her heart was glad that her family was here, though. She knew her grandmother well and realised that she'd best hurry out, Iliana wasn't a woman blessed with much patience. She took a deep breath and, feeling only a mild ache in her ribs, got out of the bed and stretched. Her mother handed her a Gryffindor tracksuit, smiling wryly.

"Here, Professor McGonagall has had to open the PE stores to provide for those in need."

Fleur examined the zipped top critically. She hated wearing red but was not about to request some Ravenclaw togs. "Are many still here?" she asked instead, pulling the trousers up.

"Few have left, in honesty," Apolline replied, walking to her side with a hairbrush. "Some have gone to the families of the muggle born to break the news. The headmistress has offered the castle as a wake house. Those who wish it may keep their dead here until it is time to bury them. I believe she will offer the grounds for that. They deserve to be honoured and what better tribute than that?"

Fleur nodded, pulling the brush through her hair, saddened at the thought of what was to come. The threat was gone forever and now they had to mourn their dead, to say good-bye to their friends who had fought so bravely. The memory of children flashed through her mind, lying glassy eyed and bloody around the ruined school. Crumpled and broken bodies that she'd glanced at to ensure no spark of life remained before abandoning them. It was their time now, to receive the care they deserved.

She zipped up her top and pulled on her boots. They had been cleaned and polished, something she suspected her father had done during a quiet moment. Touched, she smiled at him. He winked back at her, returning to his paper. Her mother was standing examining posters on another wall, a sad smile on her face.

"I hope the girl who slept in this bed is still alive," she said, her bright eyes full of tears. "How many will not be as lucky as me? How many will come here to find their children dead?"

Fleur stepped forward and embraced her mother, holding her tightly, not knowing what to say.

"Molly Weasley lost her Fred," Apolline continued, "the poor boy! What monsters did this? What craven bastards, to attack children in their school! To try and murder young Harry."

Her mother shook with grief, and relief, for another moment before stepping back, pulling herself together. Tears had rolled over her high cheeks but she sported a small smile.

"You cut your hair," she said, perhaps embarrassed to be so upset when she had no real reason to be. Her child was safe and well, standing alive before her.

Fleur laughed and touched the shortened locks. "I had to."

Her mother shook her head and put a hand on her shoulder, steering her out. "Go, my mother is never patient. Vega is waiting down stairs." Her mother raised an eloquent eyebrow and a curious look crossed her face. "She has also asked to see the wand, whatever that means."

Fleur was glad, for once, that her grandmother tended to be so obtuse.

* * *

><p>She spotted Hermione in the common room, sitting alone by the fire. Ginny and Luna were standing close by, apparently gently discouraging well-wishers. Luna waved when she spotted Fleur and beckoned her over, embracing her warmly.<p>

"Hello Fleur, are you better?"

"I am," she said, kissing the girl on both cheeks. "I cannot believe I fainted!"

"I can't believe you didn't do it much earlier!" Ginny interrupted. "You had six broken ribs!"

"Six? That sounds like rather a lot," Fleur said, slightly uneasily. "No wonder I was asleep for so long."

"It's lucky your lungs weren't damaged," Hermione said, appearing from behind Ginny. Her face was still bruised but she'd obviously washed and changed since Fleur had last seen her. It didn't look like she'd rested, though; she sported bruises beneath her eyes and weariness was written into every line.

Despite that, never had Fleur been so pleased to see someone. Despite her tiredness, Hermione was beautiful; alive and well in the flickering light of the fire. Her dark eyes plainly showed the pain and shock she was feeling and Fleur wanted nothing more than to chase those shadows from her. But now was not the time. Their eyes met for a moment and Fleur felt her eyes crinkle, watching Hermione respond in kind. Now was not the time, but it would soon come.

Hermione was clasping a black leather jacket that Fleur recognised as her own. Hermione noticed her attention and shrugged. "It was covered in blood. I cleaned it."

"Yeah, it's as good as new," Ginny enthused. Fleur smiled fondly. Obviously, whatever dislike the youngest Weasley had borne her had been set aside, at least for the moment. She was oddly grateful for that. "Good jacket, too. When Greyback bit you, he bruised you but he couldn't get through the leather."

The memory came back to Fleur and she lifted her bandaged right hand, thinking about how close she'd come to disaster.

Luna hummed and took the jacket from her, holding it up for her. "Your aunt is waiting outside the school. She's very cross looking."

"Vega is always like that," Fleur reassured her. "I hope she isn't causing problems."

"Well, she seems much scarier than you or your mother. There aren't many boys drooling over her."

Fleur rolled her eyes. Vega was a fierce warrior and had little to no time for bewitching or enchanting people. She maintained that a black eye was a much better guarantee of good behaviour than a song. She pulled on her jacket, feeling quite silly wearing it over the tracksuit. She took a short breath and nodded.

"Hermione, would you come with me, please? My grandmother wishes to speak to you."

"About the wand," Hermione stated, nodding her head and sighing tiredly. "All right, I'll get something to put on. Back in a tick."

She hurried off, the three witches watching her go for a moment. Ginny turned to her, arms folded, and lifted an eyebrow. She bore an uncanny resemblance to her mother.

"The wand? Harry's wand?"

"No," Luna interjected, pulling her own out, "Hermione's. Mr Ollivander made us new wands when we were in Shell Cottage. Hermione's has veela hair in it. Mine has griffin hair."

Ginny was wide eyed and slack jawed. "Where on earth did he get those?"

"My grandmother for the former," Fleur offered.

"And Mrs Longbottom has a very handsome Portuguese miniature griffin at her house. Mr Ollivander told me he'd never worked with either core before, but he had to make do with what he had to hand. Besides, I'm pleased with the results. My wand feels refreshingly odd and a touch more spaniel-like than before."

"Spaniel?"

"Miniature griffins are often confused for cocker spaniels. From a distance. By muggles. In the dark."

Ginny and Fleur stared at Luna before sharing an incredulous glance. "So, um, is Harry awake yet?"

"He emerged to eat an hour ago and went straight back to sleep after a bit of food." Ginny said, obviously glad of the distraction. "Ron too. They asked to be called if, you know, they were needed."

Fleur nodded sadly. "The wake, I presume?"

Ginny nodded, her eyes tearing up. "Mum's sitting with him. She hasn't left him, you know. I don't know what she's going to do when the morticians get here..."

"We will be back soon and I shall help," Fleur assured, heart aching at the thought of seeing Fred, lively, rowdy Fred, lying still and pale in death. Hermione re-entered the room, suitably bundled against the cold, and the pair left after a short good-bye.

The castle was still in disarray. The portraits were still buzzing with talk and motion, no one content to stay still or happy to be alone. Several men were levitating chunks of masonry out of the way on the main stairs, nodding respectfully to Hermione as she passed. She flushed, but nodded back.

The front hall was bustling with quiet activity. House elves and wizards stood shoulder to shoulder, moving rubble and scrubbing the floor. Grawp was pushing a wagon around like a wheel barrow while Hagrid dumped chunks of stone into it. The people there were so intent on not looking at the doors to the Great Hall that they had their heads down, attending to their tasks. Hermione and Fleur passed unnoticed.

Night was beginning to fall and brought unseasonable cold with it. Torches burned along the courtyard, providing light for the several dozen people clearing it. Fleur spotted the tall form of Vega helping one group and took Hermione by the elbow. They approached her together and she seemed to hear them coming, for she lifted her head. She nodded to her fellow workers and left them, receiving hearty thanks for her assistance.

She was, Fleur knew, a sight to behold. She was very tall and muscular, with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes. She lifted a bow and slung it around her, adjusting the sword that lay at her waist. Hermione slowed and Fleur had to give her a little tug.

"Fleur," the warrior said, dipping her head, "greetings."

"Good evening, Vega. I'm pleased to see you, but the circumstances are unfortunate."

"That," she said, turning and leading them from the courtyard, "is a gross under statement." She looked at Hermione with polite interest. "You're the girl with the wand, then."

"Um, yes," she said. Fleur was charmed to see her blushing slightly, obviously a bit intimidated by the veela.

"Vega, this is Hermione Granger."

"I am pleased to meet you, Hermione Granger," she intoned, solemnly. "Can you ride?"

Fleur was surprised to see two horses waiting for them, chewing at the grass. They were enormous creatures but watched them with curiosity, rather than suspicion. Vega gestured to one and Fleur led Hermione to it.

"I'm not good at this," she hissed, red in the face.

"Just hold onto me and you'll be fine," Fleur said, mounting the horse smoothly. "Left foot in the stirrup and take my hand. Swing your right leg over."

Hermione grunted as she got up, gripping her tightly around the sides of her waist. Fleur reached down and tucked the smaller witch's feet into the stirrups, patting her leg. Seated, they were closer to the same height and Hermione's chin bumped warmly against her shoulder blade. Vega led them to the forest, clearly comfortable in her saddle.

The ground was scarred and pitted. Clubs left by retreating giants littered the ground and dark puddles shone in the last of the evening light. Hermione buried her face in Fleur's back and took a shuddering breath.

"It's all so horrible," she whispered.

"It is," Fleur agreed, "but that is life. It is both dreadful and wonderful in turn." She took the reins in one hand and reached back to clasp Hermione's fingers with the other. "But life, it perseveres. It continues. Love continues."

Hermione shifted in her seat, seeming to cast a glance at Vega. "You told me you loved me, earlier on," she said, almost whispering.

"I did," Fleur agreed. "It is quite true." She spoke quietly too, respecting Hermione's desire for what privacy twelve feet could afford them. "I know it was needlessly melodramatic but my heart ached at the idea that I would have no other time to tell you."

Her friend was quiet for a long time, leaving Fleur to wonder what else to say.

"That night," the tone of Hermione's voice left no doubt about the night in question for it was slightly breathless. "You said that what we did was special because it was something that could only happen once."

"I did," Fleur agreed, growing quite nervous. Had there ever been a doubt that Hermione would waste no time in finding her way straight to the crux of the matter?

"So why tell me that, then?" she asked, sad and wounded. "Why tell me that if it can't happen again? If you don't want something from me?" She took a deep breath and Fleur could easily imagine her gathering her considerable courage. "With me?"

A stab of guilt sliced her belly, leaving an ache in its track. She didn't know what to tell her companion then, how to broach this difficult and dangerous topic. She knew that now was a bad time to begin this discussion and sighed. How did she keep getting herself into these conundrums?

"I told you what was in my heart. I… I couldn't face the idea of you not knowing. It… I felt I had to say good-bye, in case the chance never came again."

The horse stepped down a small slope, jostling both of them. Hermione's hands tightened nervously, coming to wrap around her, palms flat on her belly. She pressed one closer, curiosity apparent in her touch and Fleur could feel her pulse hammering against Hermione's hand.

"It didn't feel like good-bye," she whispered, sorrow in her voice. Fleur felt her stomach flip over and reached up to clasp her hand, weaving their fingers together.

"It could have been," Fleur said, "but I am so glad that it was not."

"Should it be, though?" Hermione asked, morosely. "I mean, if we can't… Wouldn't it be better if… Easier if..."

The thought terrified Fleur and she swallowed, her mouth parched. She had no idea what to say and her mind raced, desperate for a way out.

"You never told me how the spell worked," Hermione said. "Or what the bounds are. You kissed me and that didn't seem to harm it but…"

"I lied," Fleur blurted, panic overtaking good sense. The notion that Hermione would leave her life was unbearable and had to be fought at all costs. The forest was silent around them and she realised the enormity, the _stupidity_, of what she'd done. She sat rigid in her saddle, watching Vega ride as silent as a ghost before her and waited to Hermione to speak. "I will explain it," she croaked, heart pounding, "but now is not the time."

Her words seemed to wake Hermione from whatever shock she'd felt and Fleur could easily discern the mounting anger behind her. Hermione's hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white. "You lied to me."

Fleur swallowed thickly. "Yes. No. I, I was not entirely honest. But I did not lie about what you think."

Hermione was quiet then. Fleur suspected that it was due to an immense, volcanic amount of anger. Fleur was silent too, dread filling her. The night was busy though, owls were thick in the sky and creatures were moving along secret paths. Vega led them under the canopy and into the forest. Fleur, not particularly familiar with the place, saw that they followed no discernible path. Vega was unerring, though, and fifteen minutes after they passed under the trees, they heard sounds ahead. Vega whistled and a shape dropped down from a tree.

Fleur watched the guard veela talk quickly with her guide. The other woman was slender and willowy, with long silvery hair bound back in a braid. She carried a delicate bow almost as tall as herself and went bare footed through the forest. She glanced back, nodded once, and leapt back into the trees.

Hermione had not stirred throughout and Fleur utterly dreaded her wrath. The matter was worsened by the fact that she completely deserved it. All the half-truths and secrets she'd kept were now emerging into the light of day but were not, it seemed, going to make things better in the short term. The other witch's breath was heavy against her shoulder, her slight frame resting stiffly behind her own, trying not to press into her driver. Loathe though she was to disturb her, Fleur saw the glow of fires ahead and the sounds of camp were growing louder.

"We are close, Hermione."

Vega called a halt and slid off her mare. Another veela took the reins with practiced ease and shot a grin at the trio. Vega helped Hermione dismount, catching her as she stumbled a bit and turned from Fleur, frowning mightily.

"It is strange to be back on the ground after being in the saddle, no?" Vega asked, trying to lighten the situation. Fleur knew fine well that the warrior had superb hearing and had probably heard most of their conversation. Fleur stepped forward and took Hermione's elbow gently, helping her balance. Hermione bit her lip and shook one foot, obviously uncomfortable and angry.

"I understand that you are angry," Fleur said. Seeing the stormy fury on Hermione's face was enough to convince her that the best way forward was surrender, veela pride be damned. "You have every right to be. But please, I will tell you all. You shouldn't be out here, either, in the cold wood answering my grandmother's whims."

Hermione lifted her face, studying Fleur carefully, a strange look on her face. She looked ready to cry, to scream or to laugh. It worried Fleur enormously.

"I am angry, probably angrier than I've ever been and Ron's my best friend so that's saying something." She took a deep breath. "But something _did_ happen that night, both of us felt the spell after we walked out of the circle. I'm going to make you explain it entirely, every detail. Not right now, though. Right now I have to thank your grandmother for her hair and then we have to go back to the castle."

Tears gathered in her eyes and she swiped angrily at them.

"You'd better tell me," she hissed, "because it's utterly rotten of you to keep me guessing. You're the first person who isn't related to me by blood that's ever said they loved me. So you better bloody mean it and explain _how_ exactly you mean it. So I can figure out what I feel."

Fleur's heart stopped beating for what seemed like a very long time. It was likely less than a second but Hermione's fiery eyes had sent her higher cognitive function into spasm. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again and was gathering the courage to say something when Vega cleared her throat.

She started and saw Hermione do the same. The other witch stammered an apology to Vega and set off. Fleur hurried to her side, not feeling well equipped or inclined to deal with speaking to anyone. They followed the warrior and soon passed a ring of camp fires. Fleur tried to pull her wits about her.

Hermione slowed her determined steps as they entered the camp and Fleur turned to her, desperate to say something. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not sure," she said, frowning. "I mean, I'm sorry. I'm just tired. So much has happened and I'm just all over the place. I'm still angry, though, but I think that behind that is sadness, a lot of sadness, so is it all right if I keep feeling annoyed at you for a while?" she asked in a small, forlorn voice.

Fleur stopped entirely and turned to face her companion. "Do not apologise, please. And be as angry with me as you need to be. I'm sorry you're tired, too. You should be resting right now, not running around the forest with me." She felt utterly wretched and was starting to feel quite sorry for herself as well.

"Ah," a cheerful voice called, "it's much too nice a night for sleeping! Far better to be out under the stars."

Fleur turned, feeling a smile of profound relief stretch her face. She turned to see a petite woman standing with her hands on her hips. Her hair was the same silver as Fleur's but cropped neatly around her face. Vega stood to one side of her, an amused smile on her face. Fleur bowed to her and felt Hermione copy the gesture.

"Your majesty," she said, "I had no idea you led this party yourself."

The other woman shrugged, smiling wryly. "Do you think I was actually allowed do any leading, Fleur? Between this one," she slapped Vega gently on the shoulder, "and your grandmother, I was kept firmly to the rear. Introduce me to your lovely friend."

Fleur resisted the urge to stammer, worried that Hermione was probably not feeling particularly friendly towards her at that moment in time. "Your Majesty, this is Hermione Granger. She is a powerful and learned witch despite being so young. She is a close friend of The Boy Who Lived and played a crucial part in bringing about the downfall of Voldemort. Hermione, this is Queen Gabriela Senka of the veela of Four Rivers, my grandmother's tribe. She is the youngest daughter of the High Queen Saiphon."

"And you met Vega," the Queen said, nodding. "Right, so now that we're all acquainted, please accompany me to my fire. Your grandmother was called out by the sentries after she asked Vega to fetch you. She should be back shortly."

The little group made their way to a rug spread beside a crackling fire, earning curious glances as they went. The veela were busy, though, and few watched for more than a few seconds. A low table was set in the centre of the rug, bearing a small sack, five glasses and a large bottle. The Queen motioned for them to sit and quickly filled their glasses. Vega lifted bread, cheese and smoked meat from the bag, slicing all and leaving them ready for consumption.

"Well, since we're drinking we should toast," she said, cheerfully. "Here's to Harry Potter."

They drank to Harry and ate some food. Hermione was quiet but Fleur saw her native curiosity shining in those brown eyes. She was relieved that, for the next few while anyway, Hermione's mind would be off her. She was also relieved by the presence of Queen Gabriela. The veela queen was warm, kind and could talk the hind legs off a donkey. There was little risk of awkward silences.

"So, Miss Granger," the Queen said, sipping her wine happily, "you have seen my little camp. It's not very grand but then we are a war party. A fancy camp isn't necessary. Tell me, have you spent time in this forest? Is it much changed in the last couple of years?"

Hermione and the queen chattered about the Forbidden Forest. Fleur was content to sit beside her companion and listen to her speak. Slowly, she relaxed at Fleur's side, her body losing much of its tension. Was there a hint of forgiveness in the way she was beginning to turn to include Fleur in the conversation? Vega meanwhile quietly watched her queen with affection as she chatted on, building herself a sandwich.

"So the last unicorn was seen here less than five years ago?"

"No, it was during my first year so it's more than six."

"It's a pity," the queen sighed, "it is an evil place that does not admit unicorns."

"And will remain so for many years, if I'm to judge," a voice behind said. Fleur turned and saw her grandmother walking towards them. Hermione jumped beside her, taking a startled breath. Fleur took her hand and held it firmly, without forethought. "This place is blighted. Poisoned."

The veela stopped at the rug and took a seat, folding her great wings behind her. Iliana was a fearsome sight to behold in her full glory, Fleur knew. Transformed as she was, her eyes were silver with slit pupils. Her face was angular and harsh, her nose and chin almost beaked. Her hands were large and leathery, with long fingers tipped by wicked talons. Pale blue feathers covered her chest and shoulders, reflecting the fire light. They ran down her arms as far as her elbows. The plumage of her wings was a darker shade of blue, similar to raven feathers in the oily sheen reflecting sparks from the fire.

Fleur had seen her grandmother's true form many times but it never ceased to amaze her. She was strong, fierce and utterly pitiless. She was proud and haughty, appearing to look down her nose at all she saw. In human skin, she was kind and quite jovial. Fleur had long since stopped wondering about which was closer to her true nature. Her grandmother was inscrutable to people far older and wiser than herself.

"So, this witch bears a wand with my hair in it. Let me see you, child."

Hermione pulled herself together and leaned forward, offering a hand though keeping a tight grip on Fleur with the other. "Hermione Granger. I'm very pleased to meet you, finally, to thank you."

"Iliana, of the veela of the Four Rivers. You will thank me later and in another manner, I think," she said, peering intently at her. "I confess, I cannot understand why my grand daughter made such a request."

Fleur felt herself flush hotly and narrowed her eyes at her grandmother. "I asked because we were in dire need. Hermione's efforts to help Harry Potter won this war. Her wand was taken from her and she had no other. We had a wand maker on hand but no materials. I have personal experience of how effective your hair is, grandmother, so I thought to ask you."

"Indeed," she said, sipping her wine, "I suppose you had no dragons to hand. And I am stuck like this for a year and a day," she sighed. "I am not complaining, I prefer having wings to walking, but it is inconvenient sometimes. I must avoid muggles very carefully. But tell me more. How did you find your wood?"

Hermione frowned and shook her head. "I don't know. I presume Mr Ollivander found it."

Iliana laughed. "Really? I doubt that. Fleur! Where did this wood come from?"

Fleur blushed and huffed slightly. If Hermione hadn't been angry with her, she would have been delighted to finally share this little bit of information; perhaps even tell the story behind it. As it was she felt humiliated. It now felt like another deception. "I found it. An old tree beside a stream."

"And you left the traditional gift," she remarked. "Such a number of gifts to give this young lady!"

The queen peered at at her. "Iliana, please stop torturing the children. Fleur helped a friend during a time of need, which is commendable. She bestowed gifts, which was generous."

Vega nodded, a dark expression on her face. Iliana eyed her and seemed to abandon her line of thought. She sipped her wine and ate some meat, eyes sharp and darting as an silence fell.

The queen broke it quickly, as she was wont to do. "Fleur, when you return tell Professor McGonagall that we will bring the prisoners to wherever she desires at first light. Hopefully there will be enough people to take them into custody. If not, we'll keep them here. Many are claiming that they were the victims of the Imperius curse."

"Do you think they were?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know. It's not for us to judge. We don't know them or what they did," the Queen replied, sipping her wine. "Those that fought did so fiercely, like animals. Many were killed. Either his followers were in possession of very different kinds of courage, skilled liars or truly cursed. As I said, it's not for us to know."

"We slew many giants, as well," Iliana added. "Lissau found one injured not long ago. She asked my help in dispatching it. We sent it back to its mountains, there was no point in keeping it here. Wizards will not deign to try giants in a court."

Hermione was silent, though she was shifting in her seat, as if she wanted to say something. Fleur cleared her throat and sent what she assumed was a pathetic look towards her grandmother. One feathery eyebrow jerked and humour shone in her eyes.

"Fleur, thank you for bringing your friend here. I am glad to have met her. But soon, the wake shall begin."

Vega finished the last of her wine. "Come along, I'll escort you."

Hermione bowed to Gabriela and bravely shook Iliana's hand. When her gaze met her own, Fleur could plainly see the wonder and disbelief there. It was common; people forgot that veela were not comely maidens singing in the moonlight. They were fearsome warriors and quite monstrous to behold. Something within her shattered at seeing some part of that familiar expression and she wondered how long before Hermione ran screaming from her.

_I knew this could happen,_ she thought sadly, _I knew this was a consequence. But she is alive and well; if she hates me so be it. At least she is alive to do so._

Around them, the wood in the campfires cracked and popped, sending clouds of sparks and ash into the darkened sky. Night was fully upon them and as they neared the horses, Hermione turned to face her. Her dark eyes were lit golden by the fire light and despite all that was sharp and fractured between them, there was still softness there. Without a word, Hermione reached out and took Fleur's hand, gripping it firmly.

"I'm still angry with you, but stop looking like I'm going to hex you, for goodness' sake."

* * *

><p>Dear Reader,<p>

Well, there we go. The aftermath of the Battle is upon our heroines. And we got to meet some veela, which I hope didn't make too many people cringe. First person to tell me who our two special guest stars are gets what ever the internet version of a biscuit is. Possibly a vaguely rude limerick.


	12. And Now the Belsen Heap

Dear Reader,

Well, here's the next chapter. It's not a nice one, I'm afraid. It deals with how we treat the dead and some people may find this subject upsetting. I hope not, because I don't set out to disturb people but please do proceed with caution if you're very sensitive about these things. Many thanks to all who've taken the time to leave a review. They're always appreciated and gladly received.

* * *

><p>The night was bursting with life as they rode through the Forbidden Forest. Owls swooped and screeched through the cool air, more numerous than Fleur could ever remember seeing outside an owlery. She heard other calls too, from the birds and beasts of the woods. These normally cautious sylvan creatures were all awake, flitting through the undergrowth in great excitement. Some of the more canny ones, such as the foxes and crows, stopped to talk about the momentous events that had taken place. They didn't, couldn't, truly understand what had happened, for their world ended where the trees did, but they knew that a great stain had been cleansed and were glad for it.<p>

Even the trees seemed happier, Fleur mused. Their spring growth seemed especially joyous and exuberant. Though it was dark night, life pulsed all around her, awaiting the dawn and the chance to throw itself towards the sun. Every now and again Fleur would catch sight of the sky and it's full compliment of stars. They shone with incredible brightness on that crisp night, undimmed by the sea's great glow. The Milky Way was clear above the path, every constellation shining with all its might. Even the Pleiades seemed unusually radiant.

As beautiful as it was, the stars could not compare with their reflection. Her thoughts drifted from the present and back to the night before last. When Fleur had gazed into Hermione's eyes as they lay wrapped in one another beneath the vast dome of the heavens, she had seen beauty unrivalled. She'd seen the entire firmament shrunken to fit within Hermione's bright gaze and she'd realised that with all she knew of the witch, there was still so much more to discover. She'd been overcome, watching Hermione unravel beneath her, and had wished that the night would never end for them. That dawn would never come and that they could spend their lives in starlight beside the sea.

Beneath the stars, she was naught but a speck of dust. With Hermione, her understanding and knowledge of the other witch was no more than the title of a book. But while the stars made her feel insignificant, the fact that she knew so little about the other witch thrilled her. The idea that there was so much to be found had made her heart sing. There were depths and heights in Hermione that she had but glimpsed and now, with the war over, there was perhaps a chance to explore them.

She lowered her gaze, staring at Vega's straight back before her and left her musing behind. Hermione was still sitting stiffly, hands tentative as they rested on both sides of her waist. As much as she longed to reach out and make contact, she was unsure of her welcome. But Hermione was warm behind her, pressing into her as the horse picked her way over uneven ground; comforting though she had no real right to draw solace from her presence now.

Her treachery had been laid bare before the one person she wanted to protect from her faults. Despite the resurgence of life around them and her happy memories, she felt miserable and the _unfairness_ of her predicament was almost unbearable. If only Hermione had waited until they'd been able to talk. She would have explained everything and there would have been no need for such theatrics and shock tactics. She hadn't meant to be so blunt but she'd sensed that Hermione was heading down a dangerous path, one leading to a closed heart. If only she'd waited!

Exhausted, sore and in a dreadful mood, she fought back a sigh. She knew it was her fault, of course, and Hermione's anger was entirely justified but she still felt quite sorry for herself. She was too shell-shocked to face the world that surrounded her and felt no guilt for falling into a little moment of self-pity.

_Will this finally drive her into Ron's arms? That wretched git._

But no more wretched than her. He hadn't lied to Hermione, after all. He hadn't drawn her into a maze of dubious honesty and secrets; of truths barely glimpsed and answers carefully concealed. Fleur sighed her frustration and frowned. This was no time to be so dreadfully self-indulgent. People were dead. Friends of hers, even a member of her family, had died the night before. This was no time to be so selfish and maudlin; she needed to pull herself together and make herself useful.

She straightened her back and felt Hermione shift behind her, moving in the saddle until she was comfortable. Fleur patted her hand briefly before taking the reins once again. They'd have plenty of time to sort this out between them, when the world around them was back to normal.

When they arrived at the castle, they saw that several carriages had appeared in the courtyard. There were four spread out, black and lustrous in the torch light, each drawn by a pair of handsome blinkered horses. Their sable flanks gleamed in the flickering light and each had a sombre driver, well-appointed in immaculately clean robes. A half dozen well dressed wizards stood speaking to one another, heads low and tone deferential. Fleur suspected they were some sort of morticians and the thought brought a sudden wave of grief to her. She reined her mount in and slid off, helping Hermione down carefully.

When they stood face to face Hermione was frowning, almost scowling. Fleur sighed, the closed expression on the other witch's face profoundly disheartening, and turned to go. Her exit was halted by the other witch's hand on her arm.

"I'm annoyed, and angry, but I don't hate you or anything, Fleur," Hermione said, still frowning. "I don't know what to feel about you, honestly. I just want to know what's going on. Right now, I feel like you, you," she ducked her head and hurt was plain to see on her face, "like you fed me a line and shagged me on the beach."

Fleur's heart slammed to a halt behind her ribs before it slid towards her feet and tears welled in her eyes. She felt her mouth gape open and she tried to speak but found her voice strangled by guilt and sorrow. Hermione looked up at her with tears in her eyes.

"Which I _know_ isn't true," she said, anguish plain on her face. "I'm sorry, that was spiteful and mean. And I know you wouldn't do that but…" She swallowed and wrapped her arms around herself. "But I've never felt like this before. I'd never _done_ anything like that before and then, with the battle and everything… I just feel like the whole world's gone mad in the last two days and I have no idea what to do," she said, her voice low. She sounded so lost and so lonely that Fleur longed to wrap her in her arms.

"You know, I've never been here before, either," she said, smiling wryly to herself, despite the sorrow of the moment.

Hermione looked up at her, a shy smile fighting to spread over her face. Fleur's heart sped up at the sight and she felt herself blush. She shrugged and rocked on her feet, feeling heat build in her face. "I suppose I never thought about what would happen after the great battle against evil, you know," Fleur said. "I never imagined there would be so much to do." She stopped rocking and faced Hermione fully. "I thought that we'd have time to just…"

"Sort things out," Hermione finished. Her smiled widened and she pushed a hand through her thick hair. She blew out a breath and turned to look at the castle. "I know. It's so much…"

"Without all this as well," Fleur finished, gently. She saw Hermione sag with relief and her heart clenched briefly. If only she hadn't gone and passed out, they could have had this sorted by now!

Hermione nodded and stood up straight. "I… I'm annoyed but I don't hate you," she said, slightly awkwardly, apparently unsure of what to say and a bit nervous, too. "I want to sort things out. Just so you know."

"Thank you for telling me, you have every right-" Fleur said, relief leaving her weak. She took half a step forward, keen to begin apologising and explaining as quickly as she could. She was interrupted by a crashing noise beside the mortuary carts. Jumping, she turned, drawing her wand. She heard Vega's bow stretch and felt Hermione move into position beside her. She noticed, for the first time, a small and plain cart in the midst of the others. A truculent pony stood in its traces, stomping one hoof off the ground.

"Sorry, sorry," a voice with a strong accent called, "just a box, please refrain from fucking shooting me."

Hermione strode forward with a slightly guilty expression, evidently taking the escape route when it was offered. Fleur couldn't fault her but sighed loudly and turned to Vega, handing her reins over. She felt utterly useless and had no idea what to do next. Ideally, she'd grab Bill and Hermione and claim an empty room and sort this mess out. But Bill was mourning the death of his little brother and Hermione was caught in the middle of the birth of this new world of theirs. Fleur couldn't deny her the chance to go and savour her victory. After all, it wasn't every day one saved the world. Their lives would have to wait for a while yet.

Vega stood beside her, catching her eye and waiting for her to speak. When Fleur had been little, the dour warrior had taught her archery and little bits of of woodcraft during the course of long summer days. The other woman lifted an expressive eyebrow, obviously seeing her distress. Fleur shrugged helplessly.

Vega clapped a hand on her shoulder and smiled wryly, speaking in the tongue of the veela then. "Cheer up, Fleur. It could be worse. She'll forgive you for whatever you've done."

Fleur shook her head, a little bit irritated by the treatment. "I doubt that. You have no idea what I did."

"Did you almost put an arrow through her skull?" Vega asked, the very picture of innocence. Fleur resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Well then, it could be worse."

Fleur had to smile at that and let out a breath, releasing some of the tumult within her. "Thank you for playing tour guide this evening."

"You're welcome. I wanted to get the lay of the land. I'll come find you tomorrow, or Senka will."

Vega wrapped an arm around Fleur's shoulders, squeezing fondly for a quick moment. She stepped into her stirrup, smoothly rising onto her horse and gathering the reins of the other. She broke into a brisk canter and Fleur watched her for a moment.

_If all else fails, maybe they'll take me._

She shook the thought from her head and walked in the direction she'd seen Hermione go. She found a very odd scene (even by Hogwart's standards) unfolding before her.

The richly dressed wizards were glaring at a scruffy woman, wearing muggle clothes and leaning against a cart. The cart was heaped high with cardboard boxes which seemed strange to Fleur's eyes. Hermione was standing close to the woman, her arms folded as she glared at the wizards.

"Preposterous!" one snapped, his thin frame clad in rich velvets. "Your so-called services are not required. In fact, it's an insult to the memories of those who died." He spoke with the sort of highly cultured accent that suggested time spent in a very expensive university and Fleur found herself disliking his pompous nature immediately. She stood beside Hermione, looking at the other stranger.

"Fine," she said, her Scottish accent dripping with contempt, "suit yourself. But ye'll find yourselves with a castle full of rotting corpses in fairly short order. D'ye really want some mother coming to mourn her son and him the way he fell? All broken and covered in shite?"

Fleur blinked, completely taken aback. The image conjured was entirely distasteful and she frowned at the woman for her lack of decorum. Hermione opened her mouth and cast Fleur an incredulous glance. Several of the wizards began to turn very interesting shades of red and purple but the arrival of a tired, flustered Minerva McGonagall stopped their tirade before it began.

"What's the meaning of all this?" she demanded, taking in the scene before her and all who stood there. She did a double take upon seeing the stranger and stepped towards her. "Kate, what on Earth are you doing here?"

"Evening, Professor. I'm here, obviously unwanted," she frowned at the wizards, "at the behest of my esteemed father, whom you spoke to earlier." She rubbed her face. "We were called to the Shrieking Shack today. We took the remains of Severus Snape to the surgery and after enquiries, we embalmed him. He's in the cart."

Fleur felt vaguely faint. Snape, the traitor who perhaps hadn't been? And what, exactly, was embalming? Had they washed him?

"Oh, well, I see," McGonagall said, nodding stiffly, "thank you."

"You're thanking her for this brutal act?" one of the wizards sneered. "He was a headmaster of Hogwarts. He should have been afforded the greatest respect, not left to the tender mercies of a muggle saw bones."

"Squib, thank you," Kate sighed, ignoring him entirely. She was older than Fleur had first supposed and looked drawn and tired when she turned to speak to McGonagall. "Headmistress, I'd like to offer my help. I understand that you've got a lot of dead here and you're waking them. It would be prudent to embalm them, or at least clean them, before their families see them."

McGonagall nodded, mouth set in a thin line. "I've been speaking to families and the Ministry all day. They think it will be at least three days before we can hold the funerals. I've offered families the option of burial here and so far many have accepted."

"That's plenty of time for us to prepare the decedents properly, Professor," one of the morticians protested.

"But what about the wake?" Kate insisted, "you'll be robbing people, families, of the chance to say good-bye. You take five hours-"

"Four and a half!"

"Aye, which is about four too many! I can have a good number ready for the morning, if I get a bit of help." The newcomer turned to McGonagall again. "But if I'm not wanted, I'll away."

Fleur and Hermione exchanged a shocked, sickened look. Were these people really arguing about who got to prepare the dead for display? McGonagall heaved a weary sigh. She was very solemn when she spoke and all watching her seemed to stand a little bit straighter before her.

"Some won't be happy with Kate being involved, but most won't care. I'll ask the families about their preference but they deserve time to say good-bye." She lifted a stern finger and looked each and every one of them in the eye. "This is most emphatically _not_ about who gets to do what. This is about doing all we can for our students and their families. I will have no squabbling. All of you get started, if you please."

With that she nodded smartly and the group dispersed to gather their supplies. Fleur and Hermione shifted where they were standing, unsure of what to do. The headmistress turned to Hermione and peered over the top of her spectacles. "Miss Granger, would you mind following me, if you please? I have many people to speak with and I could do with a hand."

Hermione nodded and followed the retreating figure, throwing one last look over her shoulder at Fleur. Feeling slightly lost, she looked around at the group, most of whom were glaring at one another as they had their drivers unload the carriages. The stranger, Kate, huffed and grabbed a box, shoving it at Fleur.

"Come on, give me a hand with this, will ye?"

* * *

><p>Hermione trotted after McGonagall, hurrying behind her former professor. The aged witch was moving as ever she did, precisely and quickly. Hermione presumed that she'd had some rest for she couldn't fathom how the woman could still be going other wise.<p>

She felt exhaustion deep within her bones but knew that there was no time to stop and rest. She'd slept for a few hours after she'd passed out in her chair beside Fleur's bed and it seemed as if she wasn't going to get more any time soon. The nap had been enough to keep her going for a fair portion of the day but she could feel herself beginning to flag.

However, there was work to be done and she'd been asked to help. So she followed McGonagall into her old office and took the seat offered to her. She was relieved that they were in the familiar room and not in the head's study. She couldn't imagine sitting there beneath the sparkling eyes of Dumbledore in his portrait again. It had almost broken her heart to see him there earlier and she had no desire to reopen that wound. Her thoughts were interrupted when she was handed a large glass of sherry and watched, with wide eyes, as her former teacher gulped down a healthy portion from her own glass.

"Squabbling like buzzards over the bodies of students!" she said, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. "Oh, I know they only mean to help in their own way but who would have imagined it would ever come to this," she said. Hermione had never seen her teacher look so _old_ and she felt grief stealing closer again.

In an effort to shake the thoughts from her mind, Hermione sipped her drink, grimacing at the sickly taste. She coughed and set it down. "Professor… Headmistress, what can I do to help you?"

McGonagall paused and turned to face her, her stern face softening. She'd never appeared so old, Hermione thought, but she'd never seemed so unburdened, either. Her hair was escaping from its tight bun and her eyes sported dark bags beneath them but relief and wonder shone from behind her square glasses. She stepped forward and smiled a wobbly smile.

"I'm so very glad that you, Mr Potter and Mr Weasley came back," she said, quietly. "I'm so glad that you survived this and look what you accomplished!" She clasped Hermione's shoulder fondly. "Thank you. You don't understand, and you won't for some time to come because you're so young, but you have done great things."

Hermione ducked her head, embarrassed by the praise. "It was Harry who-"

"Who struck the final blow, yes," she agreed, moving back to her sherry. "But he had a long road to travel before he could. They were destined to battle, yes, but Harry was not necessarily always bound to win. He needed help from his friends to do that."

"And his teachers," Hermione added, flustered. Mcgonagall preened at that, though she tried to hide it as she fussed in her desk. She finished what it was she was doing and sat before Hermione, her tartan robes catching the flames leaping in the grate. The other witch sat gazing into her glass, watching the light catch the facets cut into the heavy crystal. She was silent for many moments, apparently gathering her thoughts before speaking.

She lifted her face and Hermione set her glass down, fiddling with her cuff nervously. She felt as though she was thirteen again and about to get scolded. McGonagall gazed at her for a long moment. "I spoke to Garrick Ollivander two weeks ago. The Carrows had a fondness for destroying or confiscating the wands of students that displeased them and many of the muggle borns in contact with the Order had escaped with their lives and nothing else. As I imagine you know, he was constructing wands in secret, with the help of the Weasley twins. He was able to find wood, but he needed core materials. Hogwarts has many dark corners and hidden cellars and we were able to furnish him with some."

McGonagall sat back and took a deep breath. "I spoke to him in The Hog's Head, in private. I was very… I came closer to despair hearing what had happened to you in Malfoy Manor than when Albus died," she said, closing her eyes. "I thought if this was what was happening to _children_…" She cleared her throat and Hermione was astounded to note that her eyes seemed to shine with tears. Tears for her. "Where did you go?"

"We went to Shell Cottage, to Bill and Fleur Weasley," she replied, pain lancing through her chest at their names and the expression on McGonagall's face. "They took us in. Looked after us."

"Fleur," McGonagall mused, her mouth tipping up into a ghost of a smile. "I can't imagine she was happy with that."

Hermione shook her head firmly and felt herself frown. Even if she was quite annoyed with Fleur, she wasn't going to hear anyone speak poorly of her. "She was very kind to us. She took us all in and cared for us as though we were her own family. Luna and Dean, too."

McGonagall nodded, though she seemed a bit surprised. "Of all the Order that's left, she's the person I know least."

Hermione frowned, wondering what McGonagall wanted. "She's…" Hermione felt her heart clench and she swallowed. _She's wonderful. She's beautiful. She's more intelligent than she lets on. She's a brilliant cook but a better kisser._ "She helped us. If anyone had found out, she and Bill would have been killed. She had to give up her job and she never once complained about us being there." She decided to omit Fleur's occasional rants about Griphook, given how the little man would have tried the patience of a saint.

McGonagall had an odd expression on her face but Hermione had no idea what to make of it. "Well, I did always think that we didn't see her at her best during the Triwizard Tournament," she conceded. "But, to business."

Hermione straightened and lifted her bag to pull out a quill and parchment. "What can I do to help?"

McGonagall flicked her wand at a stack of papers and they floated to rest between them. "I'm sorry to ask this of you," she sighed, "but I need to know if you encountered any of these wizards during your travels."

Hermione looked at the faces before her, most larking around in family photos. She frowned but after a few moments, couldn't identify them. "No, Headmistress. I don't know any of them. Who are they?" she asked, dreading the answer. Were they missing?

"They were amongst the ranks of the Death Eaters," McGonagall said and Hermione jolted upright with shock. "They don't bear the Dark Mark but they fought against us. I feel that some, at least, were imperiused. All of their families think they were," McGonagall said, sadly. "I had hoped you might have been able to shed light."

Hermione shook her head dumbly, watching the carefree figures in the pictures. They seemed so _ordinary_ and happy. She felt dread in her stomach, wondering how any of them could have sided with Voldemort and his hateful ideals. "I don't know."

McGonagall sighed. "We have a slight problem." She was quiet for a long moment. "There are many fallen on both sides. Some of those who fought with Voldemort are undoubtedly guilty and must be disposed of as soon as possible. No grave or monument must survive, you understand. Their ashes will be scattered." She took another sip of her sherry. "But in those ranks of fallen Death Eaters are those who cannot be held accountable for their actions. Those who were under the Imperius curse or similar enchantment. At dusk tomorrow, the bodies of the fallen enemies will be cremated and it would not be right to include people who were not in control of their actions."

Hermione nodded faintly, feeling sickened by all the talk of death and bodies; by the numerous funeral plans being hatched around her. She swallowed and looked up at her old teacher. "I don't know. There must be some whose allegiance was certain."

"Of course," McGonagall said. "We've already moved their remains to a remote part of the lake shore. The veela tribe has been kind enough to offer to build the pyre for us."

Hermione's head spun and she wanted nothing more than to flee, never mind her offer of assistance. She fiddled with her cuff and tried to think of a solution, preferably one which would allow her to absent herself from the whole gruesome procedure.

"The Malfoys," she said, quietly, suddenly inspired. "I saw them in the Great Hall earlier."

"Ah, yes," McGonagall said distastefully. "They knew that running would earn them a one way ticket to Azkaban. I suppose Narcissa Malfoy would offer to sing like a canary in exchange for clemency for her herself and her family."

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face and her hands shook. Narcissa, who'd stood by in the corner as Bellatrix tortured her? Watched as her sister has carved awful things into her arm? Had turned away when Bellatrix had thrown her to the ground and straddled her, biting her and pressing her cruel silver knife into her? She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut, banishing the awful memories. This was also same woman who had, it seemed, saved Harry's life by lying to Voldemort in a critical moment.

"Miss Granger?" McGonagall called softly, concern written on her features. "Are you all right?

"Why wouldn't she?" Hermione asked, quietly. "She has nothing to lose but her family. And she's shown how much they mean to her. She lied to Voldemort about Harry being dead, in the forest," McGonagall's eyes widened with surprise. "She knew it was the only way to get into the castle to search for Draco".

Hermione lowered her head and placed her hands over her face, pressing her finger tips into her tired eyes. "I don't see any reason why she'd lie now, as long as Draco and her husband are safe. I think she'd know, too. Malfoy Manor was the base of operations for Voldemort since easter, at least."

"And likely far longer," McGonagall mused grimly.

Hermione was quiet for a long time before she spoke again. Her mind was swirling with thoughts and half formed ideas. She couldn't get a grip on herself and wanted to flee and sleep. But she was needed. "They were broken, by the time we got there. They were sure that they were about to lose everything but… but Draco wouldn't tell them it was Harry. I don't know why, though. Perhaps he really couldn't tell and was frightened of being wrong. They've got nothing left, anymore."

McGonagall opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a booming knock at the door. It swung inwards with a flick of her wrist and admitted Professor Slughorn, his sparse hair wild about his face as though he too hadn't had much sleep recently.

"Minerva," Slughorn called, bustling into the office with worry on his face. "Ah, I think you'd better come out please. Only, the Yeoman Bedel is here."

McGonagall stood, her expression grim. "Good. Thank you Horace, I was expecting him."

"Yes, yes, of course," he seemed to notice Hermione for the first time. "Oh! Ah! Miss Granger!" he rushed forward and gripped her hands. "Well done, my dear. Well done!"

"Horace!" McGonagall scolded, obviously seeing the bewildered expression on Hermione's face. "The Yeoman Bedel?"

"Yes!" he said, standing upright again. "But, well, it isn't just him. Um… Well, the Aos Sí are here too."

Hermione blinked, rubbing her face in an attempt to wake herself enough to remember what she could about the Aos Sí. She saw that McGonagall was rigid in her posture, anger clear in her every line as she strode to the door.

"They're a bit late, aren't they?"

"Now, now, please! Minerva," Slughorn stammered, "be reasonable. You know what they can be like!"

"We have just faced down the most evil wizard of our time, Horace!" she cried, voice high with righteous indignation. "We're not about to bow and scrape before some drunkards who didn't even bother to show up when they could have been of great bloody use!"

The headmistress stormed out of the office, folds of tartan billowing after her. Hermione followed, frowning with confusion. "Professor," she hissed to Slughorn, "I thought the Aos Sí had sworn never to set foot in Britain."

"Well, that's true," he muttered, drawing a large hanky from his front pocket. "But they're being very literal about it all." Hermione was slightly confused by that but followed the portly man towards the door. When they came within sight of it he turned and bid her farewell, saying that he had business to attend to in the dungeon.

Hermione continued alone, out through the front door and across the courtyard. Outside the gates stood a large collection of strangers, the sight of which caused Hermione's heart to sink. She took a breath and forced herself to march forwards. As much as she craved peace and quiet, and the company of one or two select friends, she felt that she needed to help. She needed to see this through to the end. Walking across the courtyard, she realised that after all they'd been through, that someone needed to bear witness to this part of the war. The part that they'd never even thought about in their most optimistic day dreams. The boys were asleep and so the task fell to her.

The cool night breeze invigorated her and she drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with the crisp air. Some of her tiredness faded and curiosity overtook her. Momentous and strange things were happening all around her and someone needed to be there for them. She glanced at the stars and sighed. Even if she was angry with her, she would have loved for Fleur to have been with her to see this.

As she neared the crowd, she could begin to discern individuals. She hurried herself and fell into step beside McGonagall. The little old wizard who presided over so many events raised his top hat to the Headmistress of Hogwarts and sketched a neat bow as they emerged through the gate. He was accompanied by a young witch and wizard, both of whom were nervously eyeing the congregation beside them.

Five dozen warriors seated on chestnut aethonans struck the stone ground with the butts of their spears in greeting. They wore brightly coloured cloaks cinched with gold. Red, blue, green, white and yellow wool shone in the light and their chestnut mounts pawed the ground. Girt with stout leather belts sporting short swords and shod with tall boots, they looked fearsome in the flickering light of torches. They were not what Hermione expected an army to look like. They milled around and she could hear several conversations from the crowd. Some seemed bored and some seemed tired. Some were curious and craning their heads about and some peered about with great suspicion.

At some unheard signal, they fell silent and turned their full attention to the headmistress, waiting for something. Their loose ranks shifted a bit and a tiny, shrivelled old wizard mounted on a great black goat emerged, coughing as he did. His goat moved to stop a few paces in front of Hermione and bleated a greeting. He coughed again and peered up at McGonagall. "Salutations, Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts! Professor of the art of changing! Skin slipper!"

"Get on with it," an equally ancient witch complained, trotting forward on a sow. "We're here with a gift," she said, peering up at them from tiny black eyes. She reached beneath her cloak and drew forth a tattered robe. It was black and shabby, though it had probably once been rather handsome. She held it out and Hermione, nudged forward by McGonagall, edged forward to take it from her. The crone's eyes were beady, sunken as they were in her skull, but they pierced Hermione, baring her to scrutiny. Hermione's hands shook as she took the robe and the great sow grunted at her. Hermione could have sworn she heard it laughing at her as she scuttled backwards.

"What is it, Miss Granger?" McGonagall asked, never taking her eyes from the delegation before her, her wand drawn.

"It's a robe," she said, frowning. "It… it looks like the one that Voldemort was wearing…" she frowned and looked back up, catching the eye of several of the soldiers. She swallowed nervously; these were not friends or allies but she wasn't sure that they were enemies, either. A woman in red with dark hair nodded faintly before turning to survey the soldiers.

"Our washer woman, may she live until the mountains grind to dust," the old man intoned after a long moment, "found this in her basket."

Hermione felt a little gasp escape and blinked rapidly. All eyes turned to her and she reddened under their scrutiny.

"One who knows our secrets," a tall, dreadfully handsome man clad in white drawled. "Perhaps we should take her back to the hill." He had very even and bright white teeth but his smile was fierce and mocking.

"Aye," drawled the dark haired woman, her red cloak the colour of freshly spilled blood, "and start a fecking war? Are ye touched?"

He waggled his eyebrows and a man wearing blue punched him in the shoulder. The handsome man wobbled in his saddle, his mount unhappy with the commotion, and he almost fell. He was red faced and flustered, causing the soldiers to laugh at him as he regained with seat with a dark frown.

"For we protect our secrets like a drunkard guards his piss," the little woman spat, rolling her eyes. She turned to Hermione. "Never mind that gobshite. You know what this is, then?" Hermione nodded shakily, holding the robe at arm's length as if it might bite her. "And you know what it means?"

Hermione shook her head. "It would have foretold his death. Why bring it here now?"

The little witch grinned at McGonagall, her teeth black in her head. "Ah, _Pangúr Spéaclaí_, you have a canny one here! Ha! No half wits to greet the Aos Sí!"

"My student asked you a question. Would you be so kind as to answer it," McGonagall replied, red blotches forming on her cheeks. Hermione saw that her knuckles were white around her wand.

"Aye!" the wizard piped, slightly unnerved by his companions. "It was not there yesterday evening, when the sun went down and our washer woman lay down for the night. Yet it was there at dawn."

Hermione was quiet, digesting that for a moment. The Aos Sí were renowned for their cunning and she did not wish to draw their attention by speaking. Something had changed, evidently, after dark. After their arrival in Hogsmeade. Her mind raced and she stepped backwards to stand beside the Headmistress and think.

The woman in red gazed at her solemnly and knowingly. "We saw this and we wished to show it to you. Your troublesome worm is dead, truly passed beyond this world and never to return. Do not watch for him. Do not watch for any mortal," she said, quietly.

Hermione met her eyes and nodded. "Thank you."

The crone on the sow laughed. "Ha! _You_ will not repay us this kindness, _Cruachín Fheir_!"

The host laughed at that and several pointed to her, baying with laughter. Hermione scowled; she could recognise an insult when she heard one, even if she didn't know quite what it meant. She felt her anger rise and her hair bristle, earning more hoots of laughter. The woman in red beat her spear off the ground and roared at them.

"Braying like assess before a wake house! Back, back the lot of ye dogs to the stinking barrows that bore ye!"

The host took that as their cue to leave and spurred their great steeds into the air. They peeled away with a great ringing of shields and laughter, calling as they went. The sow and goat trotted through the air, though they had no wings, trailing behind the others. The red warrior remained, with two other women in red cloaks.

"Good riddance to those fools," she hissed. "I am sorry to have brought them on your head on such a day but the _bean nighe_ insisted that this relic be guarded well."

Hermione looked down at the robe in her hands, frowning at it. "I don't understand what we're supposed to do with it."

"Traditionally," McGonagall said, approaching the mounted warriors, "it was used as a shroud."

"But your enemy deserves no shroud," the soldier said. "Burn it. I saw the women of the forest building a pyre. Burn it and all else that he called his."

They were quiet for a moment, McGonagall frowning mightily. "The Red Branch did not come to our aid in battle."

"We were not invited," she said, softly. "And it was not our place to come unbidden."

McGonagall was quiet for a long moment, her anger plain to see. "So his robes were not in the washer woman's basket, but whose were?" she demanded, hotly. "Did you know that our students, _children_, would perish?"

"The basket was empty at dusk, as ever it is. And it is very rare to find the robes of someone who dies outside of Eire. Only those whose lives touch a multitude." The red warrior was quiet for a long time before she turned to Hermione. "You. You acted courteously towards us. You're a gracious child."

Hermione nodded at the compliment, not wanting to immediately prove the other witch wrong by denying it. But her heart was heavy with anger. "Why did you not come? Surely Voldemort was an enemy to Ireland as well." How could they have stood by and let them fight and die alone?

Another of the warriors, her brown hair caught in a long braid, spurred her great winged mount forward. "He was an enemy to all free folk."

The final warrior nodded. "But not the only one. We were driven beneath the hills, by your hand, because your nation couldn't live alongside its muggles."

"That was hundreds of years ago!" McGonagall bit, angrily.

They were silent for a long moment, all of those gathered still in the courtyard. The warrior in red sighed and nodded. "Gladly, we would have come had we been called. What happened here was truly evil."

"We are forbidden to step foot on this shore," said the second, quietly. "A _geis_ was laid upon us by our lord many years ago."

"But we are also under oath to give aid to women and children who request it, regardless of their place of birth," the dark haired warrior sighed. "I swear, I would have been the first to touch this ground with my unshod foot."

McGonagall exchanged a wary glance with Hermione. She took a breath and stepped forward, her straight back rigid beneath her dark robes. She bowed her head at the warrior.

"Thank you," she said, quietly. "The robe will convince all those who fear his return that he is utterly vanquished."

"It is given freely," she said courteously, "though those that have departed already see it as a mocking jape. But you are wise, skin slipper. You know better."

She nudged her great winged mount backwards and wheeled it about. "Soon! Soon will friendship between our nations be rekindled. It has been said that two women, whose kin have spilled their blood on our soil, will plant the seeds. When what time comes, we must heal those wounds."

"How wonderful!" the Yeoman Bedel chirped, unable to contain himself. He found himself on the receiving ends of several piercing glares and quailed slightly.

The red warrior chuckled darkly then. "Aye. A time of wonder it will be, indeed!"

With that, they leapt into the sky, the great chestnut wings of the horses catching the night air with ease. They swept over the forest and Hermione stood watching them for a long time, until they had vanished against the inky night. She looked down at the tattered robe she held and felt her gorge rise. She longed to throw it down, to fling it from her, but she had accepted this gift and would bear it for the time being.

* * *

><p>Half an hour after they'd started, Kate had her boxes set up in a dungeon and was talking quietly to Horace Slughorn as Fleur idled in the centre of the dank chamber. The lake outside was still, only the faintest gurgle of water audible outside the walls. No light penetrated the vaulted crypt, it was lit by hastily arranged and smoking oil lamps. It was cold there, the damp and reedy air bringing Fleur back to the frozen terror of the second task. She heard the lonely voices of Merfolk, mourning the dead from the depths of their murky home. Underlain with must, mould and slime, the smell was dreadful; sharp and metallic on the front of her tongue. She'd never smelled anything like it in her life, this bloody, muddy scent. The scent of violent and senseless death.<p>

The room was lined with benches and tables, which in turn held indistinct, though unmistakable, forms under blankets, sheets and even a tapestry. Most were stained with grime and some featured blood. A little less than half the fallen of Hogwarts were there, awaiting their turn. They lay silent in the cold room, waiting for their friends and loved ones to reclaim them; to face the reality of their death. The wizard morticians had claimed other, more pleasant rooms elsewhere, taking the remainder of the deceased.

Slughorn sighed deeply, wiping his forehead with a noisome hanky. After nodding once or twice, never looking back at the shapes there, he left with a little cough, pale in the dim light. As he exited several house elves trotted in carrying buckets of hot, soapy water. Kate pointed to a table and they set the buckets around it before scampering out, nervous and teary.

The other woman turned to Fleur, staring hard at her for a long moment. She still hadn't explained exactly who she was or why she was taking charge of the situation, which had irked Fleur slightly until she realised that _someone_ had to and this stranger seemed willing enough.

"Thanks for helping me get set, lass. You might want to leave now."

Fleur wanted nothing more than to leave, to flee the stinking, horrible dungeon and find the comfort of her family or Bill or Hermione. Her mind was caught tripping over snatches of memory, thoughts like roots from rotten and poisoned ground. They flew at her, screaming in her mind's eyes as bats, fluttering and indistinct from every angle but the very edge of perception. Too horrifying to face fully, yet. Earlier, she'd caught a glimpse of curly blonde hair from beneath a sheet and her breath had caught. The blonde girl's still face, and her jagged injuries, flashed in her mind. She'd seen so many of them, the dead and dying, during the battle. They had left them, moving them aside or covering their faces. Walking over them in their desperate efforts to survive. Now was their time, she knew, to receive the care they'd been denied. As much as her heart screamed at her to leave, she shook her head.

"I shall help. It will speed things up."

Kate stared at her for a long moment before nodding. She walked over to the pile of bodies and lifted one by the shoulders, motioning for Fleur to grab its legs. Steeling herself, she gripped the legs and hefted the small, leaden weight. They laid the body on the table and Kate pulled the sheet back, pausing only briefly to look at the person beneath before stripping her of her clothes, tugging them somewhat roughly. Fleur felt faint, her legs weakening under her.

She was only a girl! She must have been seventeen but she looked much younger, in her rumpled and torn Hufflepuff uniform. Fleur numbly took the clothes from Kate, putting them into a sack and keeping her eyes from the girl. A battered, bloodstained badger was embroidered on her jumper and Fleur felt tears gathering. She felt overwhelmed and utterly unfit to remain in the dungeon.

Most jarring, most offensive and horrible was Kate. The other woman moved quickly; she was already washing the grime and blood from the girl with a hot sponge, moving efficiently and smoothly. Her casual actions seemed an an affront to this child, someone who deserved tender care and gentleness, even now. Especially now. Fleur couldn't understand how anyone could be so businesslike in such a situation and felt completely adrift. She stood, clutching the bag with nerveless fingers, not knowing what to do.

"There isn't a mark on her," Kate remarked, "fucking magic." She paused, staring at Fleur for a long moment. Water dripped from the table, loud in the quiet dungeon. "You're about to keel over."

There was no point in denying it. "I, it's not something I ever thought I'd have to do."

"I don't want to be unkind, but either pull yourself together or get out," she said, somewhat gruffly. "There's a lot of work to do and believe me, this is probably one of the easy ones."

Fleur looked down, fixing her eyes on the girl's face for the first time, willing herself to look, to _see_. Her face was waxy and slack, her mouth open and eyes parted. Fleur approached her head, reaching up and smoothing a lock of black hair from her cold forehead. Her eyes were darkening, taking on a black film where they'd been open. The coldness beneath her hands was unnerving, a flat and absolute chill unlike anything else. The skin had lost its pliancy, heaping unnaturally. As Kate had said, she was unmarked save for a few scrapes on her arms and knees. Her hands were slightly clenched and her nails were painted a bright shade of yellow, though they were chipped and in need of a new coat.

This was someone's child; someone's daughter. A friend, a brave young person who'd stayed to fight against a superior and utterly evil foe because it had been the right thing to do. She hadn't deserved to die, no more than any of them had. But while so many now milled around the Great Hall, here she was, ghostly pale in the dungeon, a mockery of what she had been. A reminder of all she wouldn't do.

"What's her name?"

"I don't know," Kate sighed. She took tha bag from Fleur and reached into it, drawing out the jumper and looking at the tag. She squinted at it for a moment before she spoke. "She's called Megan. Megan Jones."

Fleur had never heard the name before but it saddened her to hear it. Kate was packing the jumper back into the bag, placing the sack out of the way.

"It's surreal," Fleur said after a short silence.

"Aye," Kate agreed. She looked at the girl, sighing before closing her eyes with surprising gentleness. "But it needs to be done. Either help or go find someone who will."

Fleur lifted her eyes from the dead girl, steeling herself. "What can I do?"

* * *

><p>Hermione found herself barely fit to stagger along the corridor. Her legs felt as thought they'd been transfigured into lead and her bones ached as she stumbled towards Gryffindor tower. McGonagall had gone to her office, asking Hermione to leave the cloak in the headmaster's study while she spoke to the Yeoman Bedel about the funeral arrangements. Hermione had agreed and asked what more she could do to help, earning a smile from her teacher.<p>

"Miss Granger," she'd said, "go up to your bed and get some rest. You'll need to be at your best tomorrow." She'd ducked her head and sighed sadly. "We've got a long few days before us; rest while you can, dear."

So she'd left the robes on a chair in the head's study before turning to trudge towards her dormitory. She was so tired that she could barely form a thought and longed to sink into her comfy, warm bed. She shivered, chilled from the lack of sleep, and wrapped her arms around herself. The castle was quiet around her, still and peaceful for the moment. The portraits had, apparently, exhausted themselves too and most were sound asleep. Dust still lay thickly on every flat surface but some of the rubble had been cleared and she hadn't seen a single sign of blood since returning from the veela camp.

Every so often, she'd come across someone wandering the halls, often a parent but sometimes a student. They were as exhausted as she was but their faces were distorted with shock and grief. Horror and guilt fought for dominance in their eyes and few had done more than nod a greeting at her. Hermione wondered if they sought solace in the quiet night or if they were afraid to venture into sleep. She thought that she should have felt sorry for them but her heart was raw and she felt as though every shred of pity had been wrung from her.

She shivered as she moved up the stairs, wondering what kind of person she was, to feel nothing in the face of such awful suffering. To be so hollow and uncaring when there were so many who needed help. She bit her lip and trod on, her shoes rising little plumes of dust and gathering a generous coating as she moved. She felt close to collapse and let her head hang, watching her feet.

She was almost at the foot of the final staircase when a shrill voice rang out, shattering the gloomy quiet.

"Well, about time," Rita Skeeter sighed, leaning casually against the balustrade. "I was starting to worry that you'd done a bunk."

Hermione stopped in her tracks, staring up at the other witch incredulously. She was precisely as she remembered her, her blonde hair in tight curls around her face. Jewels gleamed at her throat and at her ears and she sported an enormous, gleaming leather handbag. The only thing missing was one of her acid green quills. "How did you get in here?"

"Well," the journalist drawled, "it's the responsibility of the press to cover such momentous events, isn't it?"

Hermione grit her teeth and moved forward again, anger burning away her exhaustion. "It's the responsibility of the press to report the truth and to keep an accurate record of such events. I doubt you've ever done either."

"Now, now," she clucked, "no need to be so curt, Miss Granger." She pushed off the bannister and faced Hermione fully, blocking her way. She ran her shrewd, appraising eyes over her and Hermione felt her skin crawl. "My, but didn't you grow up nicely? I bet the boys are falling over themselves-"

"Get out of my way," Hermione snapped, stomping forward. "I'm in no mood to speak to you." She walked around the tall woman, hands clenched by her sides and guts churning. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that the scavengers would begin to gather at a time like this.

"Pity," Skeeter called. "I did so want to speak to you."

Hermione rolled her eyes and stood before the sleeping Fat Lady, clearing her throat. "Excuse me, please, wake up."

She heard heels click behind her and the overpowering scent of an expensive and sickly perfume assaulted her. She rubbed her forehead and called again, causing the Fat Lady to mumble in her sleep. She was doing her best to ignore the witch behind her but she could sense her moving closer.

"You know, I came here to write about Potter," Skeeter mused, "but I think the real story's with you."

There was a subtle threat in her tone and Hermione felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Moving slowly and carefully, she turned to face the blonde witch.

"You're very badly mistaken, if you think that," Hermione said, her voice sounding hoarse in her throat. Could she _know_? How would she have found out? She couldn't possibly have seen or heard anything, could she? Her heart began to beat more firmly within her chest, its pace increasing steadily. She felt her cheeks redden and she clenched her jaw. She turned back to the portrait and was about to speak when Skeeter laughed behind her.

"Am I? Tell me, Miss Granger, when will your parents be getting here?"

Her heart jumped in her chest and her blood froze. She felt slightly faint and lifted a shaking hand to steady herself. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut against the flash of worry and rage that had engulfed her. She clenched her fists again and knocked on the frame, hoping to startle the Fat Lady awake.

"No comment, I take it," Skeeter said, silkily. "I was ever so surprised when I went to try and find them, you know. The house empty… Months of letters on the door mat. Neighbours utterly surprised by their sudden emigration to America."

Hermione felt acid scorch her throat and mouth and swallowed thickly around the lump in her throat. "Leave. Now."

"It's remarkable," Skeeter continued. "I understand why you did it, you know. I'd have done the same. In fact, that's why I went looking for them."

Hermione whirled around at that, disbelief and anger burning within her chest. "What? Do you think I fell in the last shower? Do you think I'd ever belief that someone as vile and as horrible as you would actually try and help a pair of muggles? Don't make me laugh!"

Skeeter laid a long-fingered hand on her chest. "Why, you do have a dreadful opinion of me, don't you? After all, why wouldn't I?" A sly smile spread across her garishly painted lips. "You're a mystery, Miss Granger. Potter, I know all I really need to. Weasley's as interesting as a pile of potatoes but you… You're what's going to make my next book a best-seller. Your dear old mum and dad were sources and a good journalist always protects her sources."

She inspected her perfectly manicured nails and Hermione scowled. Obviously, she'd made plenty of money off her libellous biography of Dumbledore. "They were a source," she explained slowly, as if Hermione was a simpleton. "So I couldn't very well let them be blown up by Death Eaters, could I? And…" she smiled again, her golden teeth glittering in the lamp light. "And what better way to clear the air between us."

Hermione blinked several times, her mind howling at the implications. Skeeter would have protected her parents in order to make money and have Hermione indebted to her. Indebted and willing to swear to never report her as an Animagus, probably. Hermione shook, furious. "You're loathsome."

She spun on her heel and rapped sharply on the portrait frame, finally waking the Fat Lady. She blinked dazedly and swung open without a word, evidently sleeping off her champagne. Hermione hurried to the portrait hole but Skeeter had one last parting shot.

"Funny, two loving parents having no hint that they're ever had a daughter. No pictures. No child's bedroom." Hermione squeezed her eyes shut against tears as she cleared the picture frame.

"Heartless," Skeeter called softly, "utterly heartless thing to do. But so very clever. I never would have thought you so could be so _practical_ about something so personal."

The portrait banged shut and Hermione was left in the dark, crouched on the dusty ground, her heart hammering and tears falling from her eyes. She choked back a sob and felt her legs weaken. She fell to her knees, banging them painfully against the cold stone floor. Tears rolled over her face and her shoulders shook as she tried to muffle the sound of her grief.

Footsteps sounded, hurrying towards her and a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder. She looked up, her tears blurring her vision so badly she couldn't make out the person before her. Harry's soft voice sounded and he tugged her up, guiding her to the fire. She wiped her eyes and saw Ginny sitting with a worried frown on her flushed face. Her friend stood when she saw her and cast a worried glance at Harry.

"Hermione," he said as he led her to sit in the middle of one of the sofas, "what's wrong?"

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and tried to calm herself. Thoughts flew through her mind; chaotic, intrusive and heart breaking. She saw her mother and father, their proud smiles and happy expressions. She saw Harry and Ron, broken and wan after all they'd been through. She saw the faces of those she'd past in the corridor, bereaved and weighed down with grief. She saw Fleur.

Tears still spilled and her shoulders shook again. She couldn't stop sobs from escaping from her and the more she tired to get a hold of herself, the more she felt herself slip. Everything was spilling from her; grief and guilt and happiness and sorrow and every memory she possessed. Her throat ached and her chest shook with the effort. Strong arms gathered her and she threw her arms around Harry's waist, burying her face in his shoulder and weeping still. She felt warmth behind her as Ginny settled against her back, stroking her hair gently.

Still she wept. She mourned all those lost and all that she'd lost. She mourned her dead friends and her absent parents. She mourned all that she'd left behind since she'd left Hogwarts. She mourned Fleur's absence and the distance she felt would grow between them.

But she wept with relief, too. The war was over; their world was saved. It no longer rested on the shoulders of a thin young wizard. She no longer had to worry that her choices would affect the entire world. She no longer had to worry that a moment of weakness would leave people dead.

Ginny was humming a soothing tune and Harry was shushing her gently. His heart beat beneath her ear and she was so glad, so humbled, that he'd chosen to come back to them. That the prospect of peace resting with his family hadn't proved more tempting than a life back with them.

She felt something nudge her leg and she drew back from Harry slightly, wiping her eyes. A sorrowful mewl drew her attention and she looked down to see, to her delighted amazement, Crookshanks peering up at her. She let out a burst of incredulous laughter and he bounded into her lap, pushing his flat face into her neck and purring loudly. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her nose and fingers in his thick ginger fur. Harry's arm was still looped around her shoulders and Ginny was still leaning against her other side.

Her tears began to slow and eventually stopped. Crookshanks pushed his feet into her chest and she drew back, looking down into his squashed face.

"Where did he come from?" she asked, her voice raw from crying to much. Ginny handed her a box of tissues and Hermione wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

"Bill brought him from Aunt Muriel's," Ginny said. "He thought that he'd be good to have around. Keep too many mice from getting in."

They were silent for a long moment, allowing Hermione time to compose herself. Crookshanks, apparently satisfied that his mistress was all right for the time being, curled into her lap, still purring loudly. Hermione leaned back into the couch, leaning her head against the cushions and closing her eyes briefly. Harry and Ginny stayed close and she basked in their presence.

"It's mad, isn't it?" Harry said after a while. "I can't believe it's over."

"I… I think it all just caught up with me," Hermione said, embarrassed to have bawled onto her friends. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise," Ginny scolded, "I've cried so much today, I don't know if I can manage another tear."

Hermione made a small, sympathetic noise and leaned briefly against Ginny, pressing their heads together. Harry drew his arm back and took his glasses off, cleaning several smudges from the lenses. He replaced them and sank back into the couch, close to Hermione's side.

"I thought it'd be over after we fought," he said, sounding terribly weary. "But it's really just beginning."

"It is," Hermione agreed. "Have you been out there, Harry?"

"No," he said, softly. "I came down to see if I could help but… Mr Weasley said we have to wait for tomorrow, for the wake." Ginny seemed to shrink slightly and Hermione reached out and took her hand, gripping it tightly. Surprised brown eyes blinked up at her but she accepted the affection gladly, curling her legs beneath her.

"There's nothing to do," he said, sounding lost. "And, I mean, what do we do?"

Having seen the chaos outside, the reporters and representatives and bereaved family members, Hermione's heart sank at the thought of Harry having to face them. "I don't know."

"You listen," Ginny said, quietly. "You just listen to them. They all want to tell you about the people they loved," her voice broke. "And lost. So you just listen."

Harry reached in front of Hermione and she placed Ginny's hand in his. Harry's were larger but both were grubby with dirt from the battle that determined scrubbing hadn't been able to remove. They were both calloused and rough, the hands of busy and strong people. Both of them bit their finger nails.

Crookshanks purred and she felt a grimace steal over her face. "I interrupted you, didn't I," she groaned, feeling her cheeks flush. "Sorry."

"It's all right, Hermione," Ginny sighed, "I mean, you seem to be making a hobby of it," she teased. Hermione, and Harry beside her, turned round eyes to the youngest Weasley. She lifted her eyebrows expectantly. "What?"

Something within them broke and the three found themselves dissolving into gales of laughter. Crookshanks leapt from the couch and watched them roll around, giggling and laughing quite hysterically and Hermione felt that maybe the world was starting to resume its normal orbit.

* * *

><p>Hours and hours after she'd entered the dungeon, Fleur sat on the steps of the castle, dazedly watching the sun rise. She was dressed in another borrowed tracksuit, her Gryffindor one now burning in the castle furnace, covered in blood and gore. Kate sat beside her in funny, baggy blue clothes made of flimsy cotton. The cold, fresh air of the morning was a relief to both of them, after the night spent in the dungeon. They'd done it, though. They'd passed the dead to Madame Pomfrey and her assistants, who dressed them before allowing families to see their loved ones.<p>

It had been horrible. It had been gruesome. The smell of blood, shit and embalming fluid was still strong in her nostrils and she wondered if she'd ever be rid of it. How foolish she'd been, thinking that death was a romantic sleep! How childish.

Kate took a swig from a large bottle of fire whiskey, coughing at the burn. She nudged Fleur and handed her a second, apparently unwilling to share.

"Well, that was fucking grim," she muttered. "Never seen the like o' that."

Fleur was silent for a long moment before she took a mouthful of her drink, wincing slightly.

"Thank you," Kate said, turning to face Fleur. "That was a nasty fucking job and you did well. I wouldn't have done it without you."

Fleur didn't know what to say, so looked out over the lake instead. From here, you couldn't see much of the destruction. It was almost like nothing had happened.

"Do you do that everyday?" Fleur asked. "Deal with the dead? Prepare them for burial?"

"Well, I don't, to be honest," she answered. "I'm a pathologist. I do post mortem examinations. I rarely need to close them up and I don't often embalm them. But I know how and I'm a lot bloody better than those stuck up twats, let me tell you."

Fleur was quiet. She didn't know what a post mortem was but judging from the name and the phrase _close them up_ she decided she didn't need to. She'd helped for most, but there had been four that she'd had to leave for. Fred. Lupin. Tonks. She hadn't been able to face them, their stillness and _absence_. She'd gone and run errands, letting Kate do it herself. There were limits, she knew, and she was already far beyond her own.

The fourth had been a stranger. A young man with handsome, even features and a cap of glossy hair. His eyes had been closed, long eye lashes resting softly on his cheek. The top of his head had been stove in; sitting bloody, misshapen and grotesque. His belly had been ripped open in several places, wet loops of pink and green bowel sliding over his legs as they'd moved him. Kate had eyed him with a grim face before sending Fleur away for a cup of tea. When she'd returned, his head looked normal and the wounds in his trunk were closed, wide zigzags pinching over his pale skin.

Fleur took an unsteady breath, feeling shakes run through her.

Kate sighed, leaning forward.

"Listen to me, right? I know it was a nasty fucking task, but you've done something good here tonight. When you die, you're gone, aren't you? Whatever makes you you fucks off for climes unknown and leaves a bag of bones, bile and blood behind. Whatever it was that made you human is gone. All that's left of your humanity is the memory of you and believe me, it doesn't sit in a pile of rotting meat. It's with those left behind."

She sighed again, breath steaming in the pale dawn light. "And they need to say good-bye. They need to get used to the idea. If they don't, it ruins them. You get people in denial, stuck in a rut of grief that derails their life entirely. I can guarantee you, lass, that there are hundreds of people here who will never be the same again. People that won't be able to get out of bed with grief. Won't work. Won't be able to cope with their remaining children. Will drink themselves into an early grave. Will _put_ themselves in one.

"And all you can do for them is do your best to try and let them have some hope of healing. That starts with being able to say good-bye. And to answer _why_ this happened. Today, you and I made an effort for the former."

Fleur felt tears spill over her cheeks. "And the why? How can you begin to make sense of it?"

Kate was silent for a while, pondering that. "Well, in many ways you don't. Everyone has to make their own sense. My answer to why is currently _fucking stupid wizards murdering each other for their own fucking stupid reasons_. But someone else might say _to save the world._ People will arrive at one that makes sense for them, but you need to make sure they don't fly off the lunatic fringe, you know? Most of the time, it's enough."

They were quiet for a long time, listening as the first few songbirds began their chorus, piping through the morning haze.

"I never understood death, until now. I viewed it like a child does; someone leaving or going away for holiday," Fleur said, quietly. "I never saw just how anathematic it is to life. How unnatural."

"In this form, yes," Kate agreed. "Violence, murder, viciousness… They're wrong and death due to them is too. But unnatural? No. We've all got to check out sometime, lass. Just we'd all prefer to shrug off this mortal coil in bed, surrounded by fat, ungrateful grandchildren."

Kate took a long drink from her bottle before she stood, stretching and popping her spine. "I'm going to slink to my father's house before the families arrive. Thank you for your help, Fleur. Don't dwell on this, though. It was a rotten task and though they'll never know it, you've helped dozens of people. Being able to say good-bye is some comfort, cold though it may be."

She walked a few steps away, before taking another swig. "Having looked into the unveiled face of the absolute worst part of humanity, of the utter fucking pits of our nature and the fragile organic frame beneath, I urge you to go and be grateful that you're still alive. In a unique position to search for the best of it. It's not a chance many are afforded."

Fleur took a sip of her whiskey, mulling that over. She felt raw and exposed, naked before so much death and suffering. "Is that so? Didn't a wise man once say that _when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you._"

Kate paused, a dubious eyebrow raised. "Well, then gaze into yourself, make sure it doesn't find any fertile ground."

She walked away, round shouldered and weaving slightly. She stopped and turned, lifting a finger. "Also, Nietzsche was a miserable fucking shite. And you're too old to be tossing around such asinine quotes."

* * *

><p>Dear Reader,<p>

Just a quick note to say that everyone who guessed Xena and Gabrielle was right. But then, as you've seen, so were those who guessed the huntress and the charcoal burner's daughter. A little uber's a great thing, right? Xena and Gabrielle belong to Renaissance Pictures, they're only briefly visiting. 'Til next time.


	13. The Wretched and the Meek

Dear Reader,

Well, on with the next! Once again, thanks to all who've left a reivew! Much apppreciated. Hope you all enjoy this one.

* * *

><p>The next day proved surprisingly fair. The sky was clear and the air warm. Birdsong was audible through the windows of the dormitory and bathroom as Hermione went about her morning ablutions. It seemed somewhat offensive, such glorious weather on so momentous a day. Didn't nature know what had happened? Wasn't the world aware of what had transpired? Where was the respect the dead demanded? She sighed and pulled her hair into as neat a bun as she could manage. There was no point in dwelling on such unhappy thoughts she decided a she smoothed her robes, specially bought by Harry for the days ahead, and made her way downstairs.<p>

Because the Great Hall had been repurposed as a wake house, meals were being brought to common rooms and various classrooms. When Hermione emerged to eat at half past ten in the morning, about a dozen people were tucking into a large and seemingly delicious breakfast. Taking a bowl of porridge and honey, she perched on the arm of a sofa beside Ginny, Harry and Ron. Ginny smiled up at her and bumped her leg with her shoulder, her eyes gently inquisitive. She smiled back at her and shrugged, communicating that she was feeling fine for the moment. She had slept well and woken refreshed, as ready to face the day before her as ever she would be.

"I like not having to go all the way down to Hall to get breakfast," Ron mumbled around a bread roll stuffed with sausages and bacon.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "but it's strange too."

Hermione wholeheartedly concurred with that and went to fetch herself a cup of coffee, suspecting that she'd need to fortify herself against the day ahead.

"What did you get up to yesterday?" Ron asked, taking a mouthful of tea. "Did you go to bed?"

Hermione sighed and shook her head. "If only. It was quite an eventful day." She quickly filled them in on her trip to the veela and her time with Professor McGonagall.

"Wow," Ron whistled, "dozens of veela, eh? What was that like?" he asked, a slightly dreamy look on his face. Hermione rolled her eyes but found that she couldn't bring herself to be too annoyed with him. In fact, seeing him act like his old self was somewhat welcome. It was something familiar in alien times and bypassed her normal exasperation and desire to scold.

"They're warriors, Ron," she said, sipping the strong coffee. "They're not like those we saw at the World Cup."

"I still can't believe Fleur asked for her grandmother's hair," Ginny marvelled, "or that she gave it." Hermione shrugged helplessly. Given the reception she'd received, and the manner in which Iliana had spoken to Fleur, she couldn't quite understand it herself. Clearly, there were subtleties in the exchange that had gone entirely over her head.

She suddenly wondered if Fleur had ever considered joining the veela. She was a powerful and talented witch with an interest in ancient magic. She'd mentioned that the tribe dabbled in such practices, so what better place to hone her skills? The veela would, Hermione reckoned, be very lucky to gain someone like Fleur. Even as it flitted through her mind, the thought saddened her. She had no desire to see the other witch leave any time soon. As angry and frustrated as she was with her, she'd spoken honestly that night in the parlour. She trusted Fleur and though she'd lied to her, what of it? She'd known that Fleur couldn't tell her everything and had accepted that. Omission was almost the same as lying, after all.

_But not quite._

"Remind me about the Aos Sí," Harry said, interrupting her musing with a slightly embarrassed grimace on his face. "I remember hearing them mentioned in History of Magic but…"

Hermione nodded, gathering her wits for a moment. "When the International Statue of Secrecy was being drafted, there were a lot of wizards who didn't think it was necessary. They lived side by side with their muggles without any issue and thought the entire notion to be ridiculous. Parts of India, several Scandinavian countries, Japan and Ireland all objected strenuously."

She took a breath and a sip of coffee. "It's a long story but the main point is that the wizards of Ireland refused. After what happened with Cromwell and the Settling of Ireland, the leaders of the wizarding community stood alongside the muggles in open war. They entered battles against the English troops and demanded that the invading forces leave for good. The crown, for the last time, sent wizards and witches to battle."

Her audience was captivated and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This had _all_ been covered in History of Magic for the OWLs. "They fought the Irish forces for two years, from 1689 to 1691. But neither side could gain an advantage and though the crown's forces were numerous, they suffered dreadful casualties. So, they came to an impasse. While all this was happening, the muggles were fighting their own wars and the Irish were eventually defeated."

"But you said that they'd taken the field together," Ron pointed out.

"Yes, but when faced with an actual wizarding army, they'd engaged each other separately," Hermione explained. "It was safer for any muggle troops, that way. Anyhow, after the muggles were defeated the Irish, for reasons known only to themselves, withdrew from the fight too. There were still those who refused to abide by the Statute and rather than amend their ways, they retreated willingly to their ancestral homes in the mountains. Those who remained above ground took on the responsibility of guarding them."

"So the ones in the mountains, they became known as the Sí," Ginny said, face folded in concentration as she brought to mind dimly recalled facts. "And the ones who stayed over ground just acted, well, like we do."

Hermione nodded. "The Aos Sí is the Host of the Sí. Their warriors. They came here to guard the relic being sent from the washer woman."

"Now, that's something I've heard of," Ron piped, "there's an old story of a soldier walking to battle. It's dusk and as he crosses a stream, he comes across a little old woman washing clothes. He stops to speak to her and realises that she's washing _his_ clothes."

"Which means he'll not survive the coming battle," Ginny finished. "Wow. I never thought it was real, you know. Just some silly fairy tale mum told us when we were little."

Hermione nodded, somewhat ruefully. Hadn't recent events proved that there was often more than a kernel of truth in fairy tales? "It seems real enough. And it was important enough for them to risk breaking a vow to never set foot back in Britain."

"They're very literal," Harry said, wryly. "Can't set their feet but their aethonans can?"

"There was more," Hermione said, frowning, "McGonagall seemed angry with them for not coming."

"I don't blame her," Ron scoffed. "Five dozen trained soldiers swooping down on winged bloody horses? Would have turned the tide, I'll wager."

"Or drawn Voldemort down earlier," Harry said, quietly.

They sat in silence for a while after that, mulling the notion around their heads. Hermione was curious about the Red Branch, for she recognised a mystery when she saw one, but knew that now was not the time to go investigating. There were much more pressing matters at hand.

She drew a breath. "Harry, Rita Skeeter's around," she said, then drained the last of her coffee. "I imagine she's going to give you the same treatment she gave Dumbledore," she said, sadly. "So be careful. Don't say anything you wouldn't want someone else hearing."

Harry was pale and it didn't take her long to see that he was furious. "Can't she even let us bury our friends before…" he set his lips in a thin line. "That's it. We're telling McGonagall. We should have done it long ago."

Hermione took a breath, shaking at the notion. "She… Harry she knows about… She knows what happened to mum and dad."

Harry's bright green eyes softened. "That's why you were so upset last night."

"What happened to your parents?" Ginny asked, fear written clearly on her face.

Hermione rubbed her forehead wearily. "I changed their memories. Sent them away, somewhere they'd be safe. They… they don't realise that they even have a daughter."

Ron and Ginny looked horrified and the pity in their eyes drew tears to her own. Biting the inside of her lip, she shook her head. "I'll find them and fix it," she said, taking a deep breath. "Soon."

"Oh, Hermione," Ginny said, reaching and pulling her into a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry."

"What were you thinking?" Ron asked, incredulous as he joined in. He'd known that she'd sent them away but hadn't understood the full extent of her plan. "I mean… You should have said…"

She was silent for a long time, eyes squeezed shut. What justification was there, for what she'd done? She'd broken several laws in her desperation and she wondered if she'd be called to defend her actions. "I just didn't want them to get hurt."

"It's all right," Ginny soothed. "You'll be able to find them?" Hermione nodded. "Well, no one better to sort it out."

Hermione drew back, wiping at her eyes. She was _not_ going to start bawling again. "I will." Harry's eyes were sad but filled with understanding. He said nothing, though, but nodded faintly. She sighed and lifted her mug, bringing it for a refill.

She heard footsteps in the portrait hole and was surprised to see Neville leading a familiar blonde into the common room. "Morning all," he said, eyes lighting up when he spied the breakfast laid out. "Got a visitor with me," he said, indicating the unmistakable form of Gabrielle Delacour. She bounced on her toes impatiently, her normally sunny face drawn into a scowl. Even the sight of Harry, which usually had her beaming, failed to cheer her.

"Where is my sister?" she prodded, tugging at the tall young wizard's robes. "Where?" Her accent was thicker than Fleur's had ever been and Hermione had to hide a smile behind her hand. The girl was pouting and Neville blinked at her.

"She's probably up in the dorm, Gabs," Ginny sighed. "Come on, I'll take you to check."

"Ginny!" she exclaimed, hurrying to her side. "Please! Allons-y!"

"Not even a hello!" Ginny grumbled, then took Gabrielle's hand and led her up the stairs. Ron blinked and Harry smiled. Given her resemblance to her older sister, it was sometimes easy to forget that Gabrielle was barely twelve years old. She was usually quite a mature girl too, making her moments of childishness seem all the more incongruous.

"How did you find her?" Ron asked, turning to Neville, who shrugged.

"Madame Maxime arrived an hour ago with about a dozen from Beauxbatons, in the carriage and all. Gabrielle was making a bit of a fuss to see Fleur so I was asked to bring her up."

"Are you sure she stayed last night?" Harry asked. "We were up late and didn't see her come in. Maybe she's somewhere else."

Neville shrugged. "I was told she was up 'till dawn and felt too tired to get herself home."

Hermione bit her lip, wondering what Fleur could have been doing until dawn. The thought that she'd unknowingly walked right past her door on the way down saddened her. She couldn't escape the image that came unbidden to her mind, of glorious pale hair spread out on a pillow beside her. She had seen how Fleur's skin glowed under starlight and wondered what it would look like in daylight. Her heart clenched and she banished the thoughts for the moment.

She felt almost back to herself after her night's sleep and as she inhaled the steam off her coffee, she was sure that her mind was finally back in working order. She dared let it wander to Fleur and all that lay between them, though she knew how foolish she was; picking at this wound so often.

Part of her had been utterly shocked when Fleur revealed that she'd lied. She'd almost slid from the saddle and only her grip on the other witch's waist had halted her descent. It had hurt her deeply to hear those words, wounding her when she'd thought herself too tired and and broken to provide a target. She hadn't thought there was enough of her left to feel such a pain again.

But when she thought about it, she realised that something was not adding up. Fleur had lied about something and it was probably the fact that they could only be together once for the spell to work. It could have been the nature of the magic involved. Sex mightn't have been necessary at all, she mused. If Fleur had lied, she had lied about the mechanics of the spell not, she was sure, the emotion behind it.

Comparing it to the removal of the hexed scar on her arm, she mentally traced the parallels. In both cases, Fleur had offered her blood to purify water and then earth. She'd spoken similar words both times, but Hermione wondered if they hadn't been more for her benefit than anything else. In the first case, she'd sacrificed her arm and taken the same pain and wound onto herself.

So that was what she was missing, Hermione mused. What had Fleur sacrificed when she'd made love to her? Had she sacrificed her marriage? Had she known that by telling Bill that it would end what was between them? Hermione watched the steam curl over the rim of her mug and another thought caught her, sending her heart flying into a quick, staccato rhythm.

Had Fleur by sacrificing her marriage given up part of her future? Hermione remembered the dream where she'd held Fleur's daughter and she felt a lump form in her throat. Was that the price? Would those children even be born now? Had that been why Hermione had dreamt about them? She shook her head. No. She'd never been gifted with any powers of divination whatsoever. It was inconceivable that she'd develop any now...

She was pulled from her thoughts by Ron's sad voice. "You ready, Hermione?" he asked, rough with emotion. She blinked and swallowed, understanding his meaning. It was time to go down to the Hall and for the wake to begin. She sent her mug to the table with a soft pop and took Ron's proffered hand. She embraced him quickly, grief stealing into her mind again, banishing thoughts of Fleur. She saw that Ginny had returned, sans Gabrielle, and she held her briefly too. The others in the common room were organising themselves to leave and all turned expectant eyes to Harry.

Hermione could easily perceive the sorrow etched in every line of his bearing but he straightened his back and nodded, making his way out of the portrait hole. She turned to the stairs, wondering where Fleur was, but knew that she could not stay and wait for her.

Herself, Harry, Ron and Ginny led the group downstairs and saw, to their surprise, a large group of students waiting outside the closed doors of the Great Hall. Harry slowed, but Ron nudged him on. Luna, in beautiful yellow robes, stepped forward and smiled sadly.

"Harry," she said, embracing him gently. "Are you ready to go in?"

"You were waiting for me?" he asked, looking around at the students gathered. Several nodded and he lowered his face. "Well. Thanks."

Ginny slid her hand into his and the great doors silently slid open. Hermione grabbed Ron's arm, her legs leaden as she took in the sight before her. Arrayed along both sides of the long hall were biers, most surrounded by little knots of people. Flowers were laid on the ground around them and several of the students held bouquets in their hands. Behind each bier hung a handsome flag bearing a lion, a hawk, a badger or a snake. The rich hangings moved in the warm breeze coming in through the open windows and Hermione looked up.

The enchanted ceiling had been restored and the sun shone beautifully from it. High, fluffy white clouds chased each other slowly through the bright blue sky and the long hall was warm with summer air. The Hall had been repaired, restored to its former solemn glory before any other part of the castle. Harry moved slowly, looking from side to side at the people there. It wasn't possible to tell who, exactly, lay supine on each bier from the centre of the hall but some family members were recognisable. It was very quiet, no hum of conversation marring the peaceful scene though Hermione could hear muffled sobs.

As they made their way down the hall, Hermione realised that the Headmistress was waiting at the dais with the little wizard who presided over so many ceremonies; the Yeoman Bedel. They were close to the only Slytherin flag in the hall, marking where Severus Snape lay. Other teachers were arrayed behind them, solemn and serious in the bright morning light.

Harry stopped when he was level with Snape's bier and turned to it for a long moment. Hermione couldn't see his face and could only guess what he was feeling. How long had he hated Severus Snape for? How long had they been at loggerheads? How dreadful must he feel now that the truth was laid bare? Opposite Snape, in a position befitting a former professor, laid a man beneath the lion of Gryffindor. Beside him sat a woman with an infant in her arms and an achingly sad expression on her face.

"Mr Potter," the Yeoman Bedel said, lowering his voice discretely, "I'd like to begin." He stood up and raised his voice. "Please, join your friends," he said, raising his voice.

Harry turned to Mrs Tonks and she stood, walking towards them without a word. She nodded and they joined the Weasleys. Lupin, Tonks and Fred had been set close to one another, at the top of the hall. The other students dispersed, seeking the family of their friends or keeping company those with no one. For a long moment, Hermione worried that no one would stand with Snape but Horace Slughorn moved to stand beside his old pupil.

The Yeoman Bedel cleared his throat and took off his hat. "I have no words for a day like this," he said, sadly. "I don't know where to begin or what to say to offer comfort to all of you. Most of you stand beside people who hardly knew life before it was taken from them. All of you stand beside people of stupendous courage and heart. People who would not abandon what was right, even knowing the terrible cost."

He paused for a moment and Hermione watched his ancient face as he looked out over all of them. "We are here to remember our friends. To share stories about their lives and to mourn their deaths. We are here to remember and to say good-bye. In two days time, those here will be laid to rest. Please, in the time given to us, let us honour their memory."

He stepped aside, leaving the hall silent but for muffled weeping. Hermione turned to the Weasleys and found herself holding each of them in turn, offering her condolences and sorrow. Molly kissed her cheek. Percy's tears rolled over her hair. Bill wrapped his arms around her and thanked her. George heaved a great sigh when she held him.

It was with a certain amount of nervousness that she turned to finally face poor Fred. Ron stood with Charlie, his arm looped over the stocky man's shoulder. She stepped beside him and felt tears build at the sight. Fred was pale and still in a way that she'd never expected to see one of the twins. But there was a certain twist to his lip, a kind of little grin and she smiled as she clasped his cold hand.

"Can't believe it," Charlie whispered, voice rough with sorrow. "Wasn't real 'till now. Seeing him laid out, like."

Ron nodded and, spying Hermione, slid his other arm over her shoulders. George was standing opposite them and she blinked, having not noticed him at all. It was strange, how narrowed ones focus became in the face of such overwhelming sorrow. She couldn't take in everything around her at once, only flashes here and there. George sighed again, wan and utterly defeated in the bright summer light. His eyes were bruised from lack of sleep and despite being dressed in his most handsome clothes, he looked dishevelled.

There was movement behind her and she stepped backwards, allowing other mourners to pay their respects. She didn't know what to do, what the rules were in such a situation. Did one pray? What did one say? What was there to say, after all?

She turned in time to see Harry nervously accept Teddy Lupin from his grandmother. Andromeda Tonks' turned to her and, despite her best efforts to resist it, Hermione felt fear skitter down her spine. She swallowed and clenched her hands into fists. This wasn't Bellatrix, she reminded herself. This was Tonks' mum. This was someone who'd defied her upbringing and faced expulsion from her family to marry the muggle she loved. Andromeda nodded and turned back to her daughter, paying Hermione no further heed.

She walked over to Harry and smiled at the expression on his face. He was holding Teddy as though he was a bomb about to explode, anxiety and nervousness dancing across his features. But pride, too, though it was mingled with sorrow.

"He's beautiful," Hermione said, peering into his sleeping face. He sported a tuft of turquoise hair that she found utterly charming. He was tiny, with rounded arms and hands. Harry cleared his throat and took a shaky breath.

"Hello, Teddy," he said, softly. "I'm Harry and this lovely witch is Hermione." Hermione lifted a hand and smoothed the little quiff gently, careful not to press on his head.

"I'm your godfather," Harry continued, quietly, "and I'm very pleased to meet you." Teddy opened his eyes and blinked up at Harry, opening his mouth once or twice. His eyes were a muddy blue and Hermione wondered how long they'd remain that way. He gazed up, apparently not yet able to focus properly, and stretched out a hand, yawning as he did. Harry laughed and Hermione turned to him. His eyes were much brighter than normal and his smile was wobbling on his face.

"He's going to start screaming for food in a moment," Andromeda said, appearing beside Hermione. Her eyes were dark and warm, kind and sorrowful. Hermione felt immediately guilty for her earlier fear. This woman couldn't have been further in nature from Bellatrix. She carefully took her grandson and turned to sit. "He's not quite gotten the hang of the bottle yet, Harry," she said wistfully, "but when he's a bit better, you'll have to feed him."

Harry nodded enthusiastically and Hermione felt pain lance through her heart. She turned from Teddy and went to Tonks, her hair scarlet as she lay with her eyes closed. Beyond her was Lupin, younger than she'd expected him to look. They both looked peaceful, though.

Harry came to stand beside her and heaved a great sigh.

"It's going to be a very long two days, isn't it?"

* * *

><p>Fleur woke suddenly, jerking upright when she heard a noise beside her bed. She blinked and lifted her wand, thoroughly confused.<p>

"No! Stupid books…" She blinked again. She'd know that voice anywhere.

"Gabrielle?" Her baby sister popped up at the foot of her bed, rumpled and scowling. Her face eased into a smile, though, and she squealed as she flung herself against Fleur's chest.

"Fleur!" she cried, her slim arms wrapped around her neck, "oh, thank goodness! I heard you were hurt and Ginny told me not to wake you and I was practising levitation-"

"Shh," Fleur crooned, burying her face in her little sister's hair and kissing her head. "How on earth did you get here?"

"With Madame Maxime, of course," she said, pulling back. "Is it true that you fought in the battle, Fleur?" she asked, her blue eyes wide and shining.

"I did," she replied, and she could feel a grin stretch her face. She smoothed a lock of hair behind Gabrielle's ear and smiled. "And now, you are here."

"I am," she confirmed. "Is Gra-mere here too? With the Queen? Can I see the Queen, Fleur?"

Fleur bit her lip, the better to suppress a laugh. Gabrielle was utterly fascinated with the woman she'd been named after, though the queen bore it with good grace. "I am sure you can see her later." She lay back against the headboard and Gabrielle curled against her side, cuddling into her. Fleur continued to smooth her unruly hair, glad to see her energetic sister.

"They say that it's all over," she continued, "is it true? Is he really gone this time? Really gone?"

"He is," Fleur confirmed. "I saw it with my own eyes."

"And you were hurt? Were you, Fleur?" she asked, concern in her piping voice.

"I was in several scuffles, but none were serious. I am perfectly well, just exhausted. Where are maman and papa?"

"Maman is with gra-mere and papa is resting in the inn in the village. They said they'll be here later, for the wake."

Fleur could hear the sorrow in Gabrielle's voice and tucked her more firmly against her side. How long before her little sister outgrew such affection? She sighed and cast the thought from her mind. "Maman told me about Fred," she said. Fleur could hear the tears in her voice and lifted her face, folded into misery.

"Fred was very brave, and he was very skilled. He fought beside his family and protected Harry and the school."

Gabrielle scowled. "But why did he die, then?" she asked, her voice small. "He was very good at magic, Fleur," she explained. "At the wedding, he and George showed me lots of their spells," Fleur resisted the urge to grimace at that notion. Gabrielle was almost as mischievous as the twins. As the twin, now. As George.

Fleur sighed. "Because the people that came here, they were good at magic too, Gabrielle. And there were many of them." And they had been willing to kill all in their path, she added to herself.

"Maman said that I have to be very good, that people are very sad right now," Gabrielle said, quietly.

"Yes," Fleur agreed. "But you are always good, Gabrielle. You must simply be…" She frowned, not knowing precisely what to say. "Just stay with me or maman, hmm?"

"All right," she said. They were quiet for a long time before Gabrielle spoke again. "I missed you, Fleur."

Fleur's heart clenched. "I missed you too. But it was not safe to come and visit."

"Can I come now?" she asked, "after the funeral? During the holidays, can I come to you and Bill?"

Fleur closed her eyes at that. Where would she be during the holidays? Would Bill still be speaking to her? She reigned in her pessimism and forced a smile. "You will enjoy the beach during the summer."

"I will," she agreed. They stayed curled together for a moment longer before Fleur shooed Gabrielle and stood.

"I must change and get ready to go down. Will you wait here?"

Gabrielle nodded and smiled widely, the sorrow of the day half forgotten, so delighted was she to be back with her sister. "I'm glad to see you again."

* * *

><p>"He was such a bright boy. Wanted to work in the ministry."<p>

"She always put others first; never thought of herself when there was someone else around."

"Never liked school but loved, _loved_, quidditch!"

"He told me once, you know, that he wanted to travel."

"When she was little, before she came here, she always wanted to be in Hufflepuff, because badgers were her favourite animal."

"I never thought he'd fight, you know. Always such a gentle lad."

"And, and she once nicked a bottle of fire whiskey from her gran and smuggled it back in! We had it in the common room and we all ended up sick as dogs."

"Seemed meek, but a great bloody temper, when riled up."

"She told me she fancied someone in our class, but she never told me who. Said she would when she knew what to do about it."

"He wanted to go into business with his dad, work in the shop for a bit."

"She wanted to go to university. I, I was worried about how we were going to pay for it."

"And now it's just the two of us at home…"

"So kind, even if she was a bit flighty sometimes."

"Heart in the right place."

"Was so proud of his big brother."

"And I don't know how to explain it, they're so young. Too young to understand."

"But he was always talking about you. Looked up to you, especially after all that with that Umbridge woman."

"She trusted you and… And I wish…"

"Why did you come back? When they were all here?"

"Why her? I mean… I was there, right beside her! I could have been me."

"Why didn't he leave when I bloody well told him to?"

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why?"

Hermione stood with Harry in a quiet alcove, away from the bustle in the Great Hall. As the day had worn on, hundreds of people had arrived. They'd congregated in pockets around the biers of those they'd known, moving between them and offering their sympathy and condolences. Many had brought flowers and the Hall was overflowing. McGonagall had suggested laying them in the courtyard and the destruction was slowly vanishing beneath a sea of blossoms. Hermione watched several helpers lay out the wreaths, the students clearly glad for a break from the Hall.

Harry was sitting on a fallen column, head cradled in his hands. He'd spent time with the Weasleys and Teddy and Andromeda before moving slowly to other islands of grief. He'd been reluctant, that had been blatantly clear to Hermione, but he'd gone none the less. She'd gone with him and Ron and Ginny had joined them every now and again, when the crowd around George grew too numerous. But they always drifted back, lost and disconsolate; drawn by the depth of grief there. By the need to spill their tears and to comfort their family.

So she'd wandered with Harry, visiting the fallen of Hogwarts and hearing their stories. They'd blurred into one another, these tales. The faces of devastated parents and bereaved friends swam into view every time she closed her eyes. Their voices echoed in her mind and their emotions had scoured her soul. None had been unkind. None openly blamed Harry for what had happened or took their grief out on him. Hermione suspected that those who did feel that way, and they were numerous, were being kept away from him.

They'd listened. To the fond recollections and the anecdotes. To the accounts of their personalities and habits. To the dreams and aspirations they'd shared. To the pain of those left behind. To their confusion and feelings of injustice. To their bargaining and pleading. To their denial and despair.

Harry had borne it all with remarkable grace, taking on the burden of their sorrow without a second thought. He'd wept with some of them and laughed with others. Hermione had seen that he had no more idea of what to do than she did but that he threw himself into the turmoil wholeheartedly. He was _there_ and that seemed enough for many. She could tell that it would take a toll on his heart, eventually, but that if he turned from it now that he'd always regret it.

So, after many hours, they'd escaped for a moment to take in the fresh air and stand in silence. They hadn't spoken since emerging and Hermione was glad. She felt that her heart was close to breaking and wanted nothing more than to flee; to hide from the constant onslaught of memory. But if Harry was going to face it, then so was she. She wouldn't leave her friend to stand alone against the tide of memory.

A soft cough startled her from her musing and she was entirely shocked to see Vega in the shadows. She turned to Harry, who cast wary eyes up at her.

"Vega," she said, blinking, "um, hello."

"Good evening, Hermione," she replied. "Is this Harry Potter?"

Harry nodded and the tall witch stepped forward, bowing her head with respect. "You faced many trials and prevailed. You did very well."

"Thanks," Harry muttered, still not used to receiving praise for what he'd done. Hermione turned to Vega and asked her why she had come into the grounds.

"To inform you that the pyre is built. Those that were his are on it and at dusk, we'll light it."

Harry lifted his face and Hermione saw his jaw clench. "I want to be there. I want…"

"To make sure he's gone?" Vega finished. She nodded, understanding in her pale eyes. "Very well. I'll speak to McGonagall, to see who else will come."

She turned to leave, moving silently. "We leave by thestral in an hour and a half. From the courtyard."

They watched her leave and Harry let out a breath. "Well. I see what you mean about the veela. Not exactly like the World Cup."

"No," Hermione agreed. "Do you want to get some food before we leave?"

Harry turned to her, hands in his pockets and a definite slump to his shoulders. "You don't have to come, you know. If, I mean… It's going to be pretty grim, isn't it?"

She smiled at him and shook her head. "It is. But even if you weren't going, I would be." He lifted his eyebrows and she sighed. She stood and looked out over the courtyard, more flowers arriving every moment.

"I realised something last night, Harry. We have to see this through. It's not enough to just fight in the final battle. We have to be here for this part, too." She took a deep breath and clenched her eyes shut. "And I would rather be anywhere else but here but we have to."

"Why?" he asked, confusion apparent on his face.

"Because," she said, opening her eyes and turning to face her best friend. "People are going to want to know what happened. Rita Skeeter's lurking but she's only the tip of it, Harry. People are going to ask us, for the rest of our lives, about what happened."

She folded her arms around herself and sighed. "And we managed to survive. But so many didn't. We have to go because _they_ can't. And they deserve to have their stories told too because they were as much a part of it as we were. When push came to shove, they stood their ground."

They were both quiet for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Harry stepped forward and wrapped Hermione in a fond hug. She blinked in surprise but gripped him in return.

"Thank you, Hermione," he whispered. "I couldn't have done this without you. Ron, either. But you stayed with me, even when things were completely rubbish. You never gave up. Not when we were wandering about, not a clue where we were going. Not when my wand was broken. Not after Malfoy Manor. I'll never be able to thank you enough. Never."

"Harry," she said, choking slightly around the lump in her throat. "Did you ever think I was going to do anything else?"

Harry was quiet for a long time before he drew back. His eyes were teary but there was happiness in them. "No, you know. I didn't. I thought you'd nag me to death, a few times but I knew you'd be there."

Hermione let the nagging comment pass without rebuke and smiled at her friend. "And I always will. But hopefully not for anything quite so serious again."

Harry laughed and shook his head. "Yeah. Hopefully not." He schooled his features and took a breath. "Right. Food."

Hermione nodded and they turned. Flowers popped into existence behind them, some more gracefully than others. The courtyard was filled with their scent and every so often an errant breeze would lift stray petals, tossing them high into the afternoon sky.

* * *

><p>"In times like this," Gabriela Senka intoned solemnly, "we usually speak of the exploits of the dead. Of the deeds they accomplished and the lives they touched."<p>

Hermione shivered beneath her robe, the warmth of the day fleeing quickly without the sun to warm the land. She was standing with Harry and Ron at the farthest end of the lake, many miles from the castle. They stood with several dozen others, all stern and grim in the twilight. The Yeoman Bedel had politely declined the invitation to attend, opting instead to stay with the bereaved.

In truth, few had come. Hermione had expected many hundreds to come and see the end, the final end, of Voldemort. To see proof that he was nothing more than flesh and bone after all. To see that he, despite his best efforts, was nothing more than human. But people had been reluctant to make the journey here, to watch such a morbid sight when they were needed elsewhere.

Ginny had wavered but had decided to stay with her parents and George instead. Luna had shaken her head sadly and said that she wasn't brave enough. Neville had said that he'd had proof enough, when he'd felt the sword slice through the snake.

But others had come. Bill and Fleur stood to one side, close together and unsmiling. Kingsley and several other ministry workers were there too, speaking quietly amongst themselves. Hagrid was, to her surprise, there with Madame Maxime. Victor Krum stood with his arms folded over his chest and McGonagall watched proceedings from the front of a gaggle of teachers.

Of course, there were less welcome guests in attendance too. Rita Skeeter watched all with her sharp, dark eyes and Narcissa Malfoy had her head bowed. True to Hermione's predictions, she'd gladly helped with sorting the guilty from the innocent. Those Imperiused who had fallen had been sent back to their families with heartfelt apologies and condolences. Though they were innocent, they would not lie side by side with the defenders of Hogwarts.

The veela Queen spoke again. Her voice was strong and carried well across the lake shore, no need for amplification. Vega and several other veela stood around her and Hermione occasionally caught glimpses of great, winged shadows in the trees.

"But their exploits brought ruin to many. Their deeds were dark and if they touched lives, it was to destroy them. There are no kind words for them in my mind or sympathy in my heart. I have stood at the pyre of my enemies before and spoken of their bravery in battle but what courage does it take to raise a hand against children? To lurk in shadows and prey upon the fears of all? To threaten and terrorise all who would oppose you?"

She was silent for a moment and Hermione was shocked to see real anger on the queen's face. Outrage and despair that they'd come too late. "But we must remember them. If only to ensure that this is never again repeated. To understand why people listened to this hateful message and to ensure that it or its kind can never again take root in the hearts and minds of good people."

Her voice echoed for a long moment and all standing were lost in their own contemplation. Hermione looked at the forms on the pyre, each covered with blankets and bundles of wood. It was impossible to tell who was whom and she supposed that was the intention. All attention turned to the pyre and the Queen opened her hand. A silver flame danced there and as the last of the light faded from the sky, she sent it to rest at the foot of the stacked wood.

It must mast been doused with oil, Hermione thought, for once it touched the flame shot along the base of the vast structure, orange flames leaping behind it. In moments, fire roared up the wood and engulfed the entire frame. Pockets of sap screamed and popped as the hot flames rushed up and thick smoke rose.

All watching drew back and several lifted their wands, calling wind to come and sweep the smoke and ash out over the lake, away from the crowd and away from Hogwarts. The heat was incredible and Hermione felt her face scorch in it. She tugged Harry and Ron and they turned, blinded as they adjusted to the dim light. Some still faced the pyre, watching it as thought they were committing it to memory. Hermione sighed and led the boys away, all three silent.

They hadn't gone far, either in steps or in thought, before they found themselves confronted by a haggard, exhausted Xenophilus Lovegood. He was wearing neat robes, dark and well-suited to the sombre occasion, but they seemed to fit him poorly. He was swamped in their folds as he held out a trembling hand.

"Mr Potter," he whispered, fear and dreadful guilt in his eyes, "I'm… Please, I know I deserve Azkaban for what I did but… Please," his face was haunted and he looked so pathetic that Hermione's heart gave a little lurch. "Allow me to beg your forgiveness."

Hermione turned to Ron, clutching his hand and squeezing it fiercely. He bore an expression of annoyance and exasperation, though also some shame. Hermione knew he'd never really forgiven Xenophilus for what had happened that day, despite what desperation had driven him.

Harry sighed. "Please," he said, wearily, "it's all right. I… I understand why you did it." Xenophilus lifted his face, astonishment written there. "I'm just glad we were able to get Luna out of Malfoy Manor, you know. I'm sorry we couldn't tell you."

The man still looked wretched. "You came for help!" he moaned. "All I remember is that. You looked so tired and… and so young and I called those damned… I'm so sorry. I'm so dreadfully sorry."

Harry held up his hands, clearly not comfortable with the scene. "Please. You're forgiven. I think I would have done the same." Hermione bit her lip, knowing well that Harry would have done nothing of the sort. But Xenophilus' face had folded into pitiable relief.

"Thank you. I… I couldn't stand to loose her. Not after my love, my Cassiopeia. Not after my brother." Tears shone in his wide eyes and he bowed his head. "She's the only family I have left. She's the only bright thing in my life."

Harry nodded. "I understand. It's all right."

"I'll make it up to you," he swore, setting his face. "I know that they made me lie, Mr Potter, but I'll tell the truth. Your truth. Whenever you're ready."

With that, he turned and left them, the three quite taken aback by the emotional display. "Well," Ron muttered, "least he could do for us, isn't it?"

"If it hadn't been for him, we never would have figured out about the Hallows," Harry reminded him. "He doesn't even realise he helped us."

Hermione rubbed her eyes, perfectly aware that Mr Lovegood's ignorance was entirely her doing. She hoped he hadn't suffered too badly at the hands of the Death Eaters who'd come to his home.

Kingsley was the next to approach them and took their congratulations about his new post with good grace. He shook their hands and clasped Harry by the shoulder.

"They would have been very proud of you," he said, smiling broadly. "All of the old Order. Be proud of yourself, too."

Hermione left Harry to speak to the minister, Ron standing protectively beside him. She needed a moment to herself and a breath of fresh air. She moved to the edge of the trees and leaned against one, closing her eyes tiredly.

"It's unbearable," a low voice said, emanating from several yards away. Hermione's hand flew to her wand and she raised it. Backlit by the pyre, she could discern a classical profile, nose raised. "To see ones own sister tossed on a pyre like a savage."

Hermione's blood froze and her mouth was dry. She glared at Narcissa Malfoy and did not lower her wand. "This is more than she deserves. Than any of them do."

The other woman did not turn to look at her, eyes fixed on the intense conflagration instead. "Perhaps this is fitting for a Death Eater. But she was my sister first. They at least allowed me to say good-bye to her, before they shrouded her. She looked so young." Her voice was hollow and Hermione felt rage flare within her.

"She was a murderer. She killed your cousin! She killed your niece! Less than a fortnight after she'd given birth!" she hissed.

Narcissa sighed. "I know. I do not make apologies for her. She was a monster. But she never turned that fury against me, even in her darkest moments. Allow me to mourn my sister."

Hermione turned and stumbled away. Memories of Malfoy Manor swam into her mind, mixed now with scenes from the battle. She felt a sob building and pressed her hand to her mouth, steadying herself against a tree. She cursed her weakness, then. How was it that every time she thought she had a handle on her emotions, that something else would come and unearth new pain. She cursed herself again and drew a shaky breath.

"Hermione?" a soft voice asked and she felt herself shudder. She turned and saw Fleur and Bill watching her with concern. Bill spoke again. "We saw you speaking to Malfoy. Are you all right?"

She nodded dumbly, her heart in no state to speak to the pair. Fleur's eyes shone with concern and Bill's face was full of sympathy. She tried to stand up straight and stumbled on a fallen branch, momentarily losing her balance. Both of those before her shot forward, but Fleur was quicker. She took a firm grip of her arms and Hermione fumbled to pull herself upright. Bill steadied her with a hand on her elbow and despite the guilt and shame, she was glad to see the pair of them. Glad for them to stand shielding her from the light and heat of the pyre.

Fleur drew her forward and embraced her firmly and Hermione was utterly shocked to feel Bill wrap his long arms around both of them. She closed her eyes, almost woozy with the rush of emotion flying through her mind. She was numb and couldn't bring herself to respond in any form other than feel relief for the raw comfort and safety found in her friends' embrace.

"We must talk," Fleur whispered. "This has gone on long enough."

Hermione nodded, taking a deep breath. But a thought struck her and she stiffened. What they wished to tell her was not for public consumption, that much was clear. How could they be sure of privacy in a time like this, when journalists stood not thirty paces distant? Their privacy was too high a cost to pay for satisfying her curiosity.

"Hermione?" Bill asked, drawing back slightly. "What's wrong?"

"No," she whispered, "we can't." She pulled herself out of their arms and fixed them with the surest gaze she could. "There's… Bill, did Ron ever mention anything about Rita Skeeter?"

Bill frowned at that, utterly confused. "Uh, no. I didn't think Ron read the papers."

Despite his attempt at humour, Hermione did not smile. As much as she longed to know what was going on, she knew that the last thing any of them needed was for any conversation to explode across the pages of the Daily Prophet or another such publication. "She's like Padfoot was," she said, clearly, "only smaller. Able to creep in and listen."

Understanding dawned on Bill's face and he blinked. Fleur was scowling mightily at the information, her mouth set in frustration. "I see," he said. "Is there… I mean, what now?"

Hermione rubbed her forehead. "I don't know. I… Harry and I are sorting it out."

Fleur's face collapsed and she turned, swearing quietly in French. Hermione longed to reach out to her but in plain sight of so many, she was paralysed; terrified of what could result from it. Bill sighed, pale and morose.

"Well, let us know what happens, all right?"

She nodded shakily and though it pained her greatly, walked away from the pair of them. She returned to Harry and Ron and only then turned to look back. Bill and Fleur were embracing each other beneath the trees, little more than a shadow. It was impossible to tell where she ended and he began and the sight was like nails being driven into her chest.

_What if that was it? What if that was my chance to hear it?_

And if it was, and she had squandered it… She turned back to the pyre and watched the flames, leaping ten feet into the air. The fire would destroy the remnants of Voldemort and his troops. They would erase their presence and cleanse some of the taint that they had left. She stared into them numbly, wondering if any such flame existed for the heart.

* * *

><p>By the time they returned to the castle, the Courtyard was covered in flowers. Candles rested on any spare surface and bobbed through the air. Groups of mourners were sitting in the cool night air, talking amongst themselves. Sobs rose from one group, laughter from another and Hermione closed her eyes, letting the sounds wash over her. She followed Harry as he wove his way back into the hall, pausing only briefly as he went.<p>

He walked purposefully to the head of the hall and, for the first time, made his way to Snape's coffin. Some had mentioned that having the former headmaster there would offend some but apparently, after hearing Harry's words during the duel and speaking to Dumbledore's portrait, McGonagall was having none of it. The imposing witch was no where to be seen but Slughorn was sitting with several visitors, sipping from a glass of fire whiskey.

"Harry," he greeted in somewhat subdued terms, obviously pleased to see him but mindful of the occasion. "Do sit down, your friends as well."

Hermione turned to look at Snape and realised that someone had washed his hair. it was combed neatly around his face and he was relaxed, not sneering or looking down his hooked nose. His sallow skin was pale, though, and he was dressed in a high-necked robe.

"So," Slughorn sighed as the other mourners left. "Well. So he never stopped loving her?"

Hermione and Ron sat beside Harry, accepting glasses from the potions master. "My, my," he sighed. "Well, here's to Severus. One of my finest pupils."

They gently touched their glasses, after Harry showed no hesitation. It felt utterly bizarre to toast him, given how up until very recently, they'd considered him an enemy.

"Did you know, then?" Harry asked, his voice low. "I mean, about Professor Snape and my mother?"

Slughorn sighed, his round face folded with the memories and his moustache appearing to droop slightly. "Indeed I did. I may be old, Harry, but I wasn't always. I remember what it was like to be young and in love." He chuckled at some fond memory and took another sip. "Severus, when he was a boy, was all thorns and spines. He affected an aloofness that always seemed a little forced. Anyone with eyes could see that he adored your mother," he said, wistfully.

"And I thought it was wonderful. Lily, she would have coaxed a turtle from its shell, never mind a hedgehog from his coat!" he said. "Oh, but, something broke between them. She turned her back on him and suddenly, all that coldness and meanness that he'd pretended became real. They left, both of them, soon after."

He heaved a deep sigh, his chair creaking below him. "I never asked. When I saw him again, it was after Lily was murdered. He took my place as potion's master and he was so different from the boy I'd known. He was harder than coal… We never spoke of Lily. Not even in the last couple of years. I presumed…" he sighed. "Well, I never expected him to still carry a torch for her, let alone love her."

They were all silent for a long time, lost in their own thoughts. Hermione wondered if Lily had ever discussed her slightly unusual magical interests with Slughorn and was tempted to ask him. However, the timing didn't seem right and she contented herself with watching him gather his thoughts.

"I'm glad, though," he whispered. "I… I couldn't believe that he'd killed Albus. I mean, it seemed so unlikely. He was a sullen boy, yes, but never evil. Not like…" he caught himself before he could go further. "I'm glad. It makes sense, now. How he sent so many students to me for detention. I assumed that, because they were rarely Slytherins, that he wanted me to take points from them."

"No," Harry said. "He didn't want them near the Carrows. He knew you'd not treat them cruelly."

He seemed cheered somewhat by that and let a half smile curl the tip of his moustache. "Well. Yes, of course not."

"And you came back," Harry said, grateful, "you brought all those people from Hogsmeade."

"Of course I did," he said, "why, I wouldn't have been able to stop them! We would have been here sooner but there were many Death Eaters in the village. We couldn't evacuate the students only to serve them up as hostages." He drained the last of his glass. "I know that many in my house acted deplorably, but I think if you could have seen some of them in Hogsmeade, clearing the path and helping the younger pupils escape, you would hold us in higher esteem."

Harry was quiet for a moment before he lifted his face, smiling at Slughorn. "Did you know, Professor Dumbledore once said to Professor Snape that the Hat sorts too early?"

The implication was clear and Slughorn puffed his chest, his brass buttons squeaking ominously. "Well. Ambition without bravery is nothing more than hot air, my dear boy. If you want to achieve your aims, you must have the means to back it up."

They spoke for a while longer, several teachers and students dipping in to pay their respects. Ron yawned and they took that as their cue to return to the Weasleys. Aunt Muriel had arrived and was sitting beside Mrs Longbottom. Neville was cradling a sleeping Teddy against his chest and Molly was dozing, her tired head resting on Arthur's shoulder. Lee Jordan was there with several friends and they'd brought instruments. They were playing a slow tune which seemed to gently recall happier times. Angelica, Katie and Alicia were sitting with George, softly laughing together.

Hermione took a seat beside Neville, Harry and Ron squashing in beside her. "Is Mrs Tonks still here?" Harry asked, looking around for her.

"No, she went out a few minutes ago. Asked me to keep an eye," Neville said, somewhat nervously. "Er, I'm not exactly sure why."

"Well, you're doing a good job so far," Ron remarked. "Look, he isn't even crying."

Teddy, it appeared, was going to be as much of a conformist as his father and godfather. No sooner were the words loosed from Ron than he started fussing, mewling unhappily on Neville's shoulder.

"Oh, blimey," he squeaked. "Ron!"

"What?" Ron protested. "I didn't do anything!"

"Give him to Harry," Hermione suggested. "He seemed to like him earlier on."

But Harry, much to his chagrin, couldn't settle the infant. Teddy hadn't exactly started crying but was making noises which implied he was seriously considering doing precisely that. Harry turned despairing eyes all around and eventually honed in on Hermione. She narrowed her eyes.

"Oh no. I have no more experience with babies than you do."

"But you're a-" she shot a glare at Ron and he coughed, "a, always great at figuring out what to do!"

Harry nodded and Hermione soon found herself with her arms filled with a squirming infant. She couldn't figure out how to get him to lie back against her arm so she leaned him against her shoulder, rubbing his back. He kicked surprisingly strong legs against her chest for a moment before letting out a quiet belch. He seemed to startle himself and was still for a moment before he let out a sigh and quietened.

"He had wind," she told the boys.

Harry and Neville seemed relieved. "Well, at least he isn't going to start screaming, eh?"

Ron nodded, regarding the infant as one would a dangerous and unpredictable animal. Hermione supposed that despite his enormous family, he wouldn't remember being around Ginny when she was tiny. He'd barely been a toddler when she was born, after all. Teddy made a few small, snuffling noises before burrowing his heavy head into her shoulder and stilling.

Sitting still and holding the slumbering infant on her chest, Hermione felt the exhaustion of the day begin to catch up with her. She knew that midnight was fast approaching and she wondered if it wouldn't be a good idea to head to bed for a few hours. She could then at least be around first thing in the morning to take over from who ever sat up throughout the night. Harry and Ron had received more rest than she and neither seemed tired at all. Even a few hours would be welcome.

Mrs Tonks arrived back and took Teddy from her, thanking her for her efforts. She'd nodded tiredly and tapped Ron on the shoulder. She asked him to stay with Harry and he agreed, squeezing her hand briefly. She promised to return in a couple of hours and quietly made her way out of the Hall, passing increasingly rowdy crowds as keeners and musicians began to play.

She made her way to the tower without being stopped and was almost in her bed when she practically flew into Fleur, who was exiting the dormitory in which she'd been housed. The taller witch looked tired and harried, a familiar sight these days. But she still smiled when she saw Hermione, steadying her with a hand.

"Good evening," she said, drawing her wand. "Are you coming up to get a few hours sleep?" She flicked the wand through the air and there was a pulse of light that spread for a good five yards before fading. Hermione frowned up at her, not sure what had happened.

"What was that about?"

"It is something I learned when first I came here," she said, lowering her wand and stepping forward. "I was plagued by pests in these dusty, dark passages and kept getting spiders and the like in my hair."

Hermione shook her head, understanding dawning. Given the sharp spiral that the staircase followed, there was no way that any body, even a beetle body, would be able to see them after that. Fleur wore a slightly apprehensive expression and licked her lips nervously.

"Have you just returned?" Hermione asked. Fleur nodded, indicating a packed shoulder bag and Hermione realised she had collected her belongings. Fleur was leaving. Hermione shuddered then, the coldness, exhaustion and misery catching up again. "About earlier. I'm sorry I went to pieces…" Fleur shook her head.

"Don't apologise. It's all right." She lifted a hand and smoothed a strand of hair behind Hermione's ear, her touch light and gentle. "I was glad to be there."

Hermione nodded at her, hoping that the dim light would not make it impossible to see her expression. There was so much she wanted to say to Fleur but she had no idea where to begin. Besides, with Rita Skeeter's threat hanging over her head… She sighed and shook her head.

"Thank you," she simply said. It was all she could say. "I… I'd love to stay and chat…" she said, meaning it with all her heart. She saw a hint of frustration cross Fleur's face, though it passed quickly. Determination filled her eyes and she cast her bright gaze around.

Fleur flicked her wand again, raising an eyebrow. "Where do they all come from?" she asked, blithely. She tucked her wand away and gently took hold of Hermione's face. "I made you a promise," she said quietly, their foreheads close together. "And I will not break it. In fact, I made many promises to you. I will keep them."

Fleur kissed her cheek, slowly and carefully. She lingered there, her scent intoxicating to Hermione. She breathed it in, longing to turn and press her own lips…

But Fleur drew back and the moment faded. They stood in the stairway, colour high on both their cheeks. Hermione frowned, swallowing thickly and looking at the bag. "When will you be back?"

"I'm only going to Hogsmeade," she replied. "I will drop this off and be back in an hour or two. Go now, rest. I will see you in the morning."

Fleur walked past her, reaching a hand out to her as she passed. She was almost beyond sight when Hermione called her name, causing her to stop in her tracks.

"I… I still think we should get together... I still want to."

Fleur sighed. "I want that too. Goodnight, Hermione."

She vanished from sight, her silvery hair taking what little light had shone in the narrow stairway. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and ran up the rest of the stairs. She threw herself into her bed, whipping the curtains around her as she went. She buried her face in her pillow and took a shuddering breath, willing sleep to claim her and save her from the cold cruelty of the waking world.

* * *

><p>Fleur was not terribly surprised when, after she was about three hundred yards from the castle, Queen Gabriela Senka fell into step beside her. She melted in from the shadows, her petite form appearing suddenly and silently.<p>

"Good evening, my Queen."

"Ah, not you too!" she moaned, speaking in the language of the veela. "We're alone and you're a woman full grown, Fleur. Call me Senka."

Fleur was surprised to be honoured so and slowed her step for a moment. "If my grandmother were to hear-"

"She'd have to be much sneakier than she is," Senka said, decisively. Fleur remembered being told that Senka meant _shadow_ and it suited the Queen well. Never had there been one so gifted in the art of stealth. Fleur exhaled and shifted her bag.

"You're unhappy," Senka said, sympathy in her voice. "Why? We stand victorious!"

Fleur nodded her agreement but said nothing more. "I am happy that the dark lord was defeated, that his army was scattered."

"Yes unhappy about something else," she mused. "Well, I shan't pry. It would be rude and terribly unseemly for a Queen."

They walked in silence for a while and Fleur felt more stupid with each step. Of course Senka knew what was going on. Vega knew and what the dour warrior knew, the little queen was privy to. She was acting like a petulant child and she was sorely aware of it.

"It… It is not something I wish to discuss. It is not easy to talk about."

"Matters of the heart never are," the queen agreed. Fleur felt herself flush and cursed herself. "But as difficult as it is, you must. You can solve this is you speak to her."

"But I cannot! I don't even know where to begin!" Fleur groaned. "I must tell her secrets which are not mine to tell. I must tell her truths about myself that I have never revealed to another. I must tell her about the nature of a spell that we cast but, most unfortunately, I do not really understand what happened! And we cannot speak at the moment, for Hermione is being trailed by an animagus who, according to Bill, bears a grudge against her!"

She let out an angry puff of breath and shook her head. "I'm sorry, your majesty. That was uncalled-for."

"Wow," Senka murmured, "well, trust Vega to tell me the simple version. This is dreadfully complicated, Fleur."

"I know."

"But, I still think you should speak to her." Senka was silent for a moment as they neared the village. Lanterns left pools of light on the ground and people bustled around. Every spare bed in the village was taken and Fleur's family had been lucky to secure a room in The Three Broomsticks.

"Good evening, your majesty," Madame Rosmerta called from the doorway of the pub. She was leaning against the jamb, calming smoking on a clay pipe. Fleur looked from the inn keeper back to her queen and raised an eyebrow.

"If you're wondering," Senka said, in English, "myself and our quarter mistress came here yesterday to secure some essential supplies for our party. We left in haste and brought only the basics with us."

Fleur raised an eyebrow. Since when was wine considered essential? She nodded her head at Rosmerta, who saluted her with her pipe. "Fleur, isn't it? Your room is up the stairs, second on the left. Nice view of the town."

"Thank you," Fleur sighed. "Do I need a key?"

"No, there are people up there."

Fleur nodded and turned to the Queen, bowing to her. "Thank you for your company. And your conversation."

"You're welcome, Fleur. But please," the queen implored, her eyes bright in the flickering lantern light. "Consider what I said. You know it's the right thing to do." She clasped her hand briefly and stepped back. "Come and join us Fleur, whenever you wish."

Fleur was grateful for the invitation and nodded. She turned and ascended the stairs, entering the unlocked room. It was empty, but clothes were scattered all around. Her mother bustled in a moment after her, an armload of robes preceding her. "Ah, there you are. Did you meet Bill?"

"Bill?" she asked, confused. "No. Where is he?"

"He must have headed back," she sighed. "He was anxious to return." Fleur was about to say that she felt the same way when her mother took her bag from her and ushered to a neatly made bed tucked in the corner. "And you! You have recently been very ill. Into bed, I shall call you in a couple of hours. When Gabrielle and your father return, you can head back with me," she said, forestalling any argument that Fleur could imagine. She kicked her boots off and pulled her jumped over her head, slumping into bed gracelessly.

Her eyes were heavy and the soft noises her mother made were not enough to distract her from sleep. She felt herself pulled down into sleep and as she drifted off, her last thought was of intelligent brown eyes shining above a warm smile.

* * *

><p>Hermione felt the sun warm her face and frowned in confusion. She distinctly remembered closing the curtains around her bed before she'd settled down to sleep. She heard water flowing nearby and opened her eyes slowly, not overly concerned by the unexpected world around her. The sky above was a bold shade of blue, deep and almost solid. It was broken only by pale smudges that resolved themselves into blossoms as her eyes focused. There was sand beneath her hands, dry and holding the sun's heat. She stretched and let her arms fall behind her head as she watched the flowers move in the whisper of wind.<p>

She sighed, contented, and realised that she'd escaped to a most pleasant dream. She couldn't recall what she'd been doing before bed and found she didn't mind. She was relaxed and comfortable, bathed in warm light and the scent of spring. Some part of her felt as though this was something that she'd been missing for a long time.

"Should I leave you undisturbed?" a familiar voice asked. Hermione turned her head and saw Fleur sitting with her feet dangling in a nearby brook. She raised herself up on her elbows and cast her gaze around. They were sitting on a sandy patch of ground beside a quickly running stream in the middle of a patch of woodland. She didn't recognise the scene but was glad that her imagination still had room for the creation of such beautiful places.

Fleur was waiting for a response beside her, eyes sparkling beneath long lashes. She was wearing a white sun dress, simple and light. Her arms and legs were bare, glowing golden in the sunlight. Her hair fell about her face, no pins or ties holding it back. She was more beautiful then that Hermione could ever remember seeing her, shining with health and vigour, no hint of war or stain of grief upon her. She smiled radiantly and Hermione felt herself return the gesture.

"Please," she whispered, "stay."

Fleur nodded but shifted closer, eyes dark and filled with intense concentration. She lifted a hand and traced the line of her arms, her shoulders and neck. Hermione, with a great exertion of will, kept her own eyes open, gazing at her lover.

Fleur's touch was gentle but it never wavered. Though to think of it, it never had. She ran her fingers over her lips and eyebrows, over her ears and nose. Her lips were parted and she seemed engrossed, completely absorbed in her study. As though she wished to commit every part of her to memory. Hermione was charmed by her and felt her heart soften. She never felt so beautiful as when Fleur looked at her like this.

"You are absolutely gorgeous," she breathed, drawing her hand back. "Did I tell you that? Did I tell you often enough, how beautiful you are?"

Hermione lifted her own hand, not quite as steadily as Fleur had done, and touched her cheek. "Nothing compared to you."

"No," Fleur whispered, "so much more."

Then gently, Fleur leaned over her and kissed her. Her lips were as soft as Hermione remembered and her mouth was just as sweet. Just as hot. Their hands found each other and Hermione sat up fully, her legs flush with Fleur's. It was intoxicating and her heart and mind were filled with the moment. All else was burned away and she felt her spirit lighten. She clutched Fleur's shoulders and gasped for breath. Fleur kissed her throat and ear, benedictions and words of love falling from her lips as she moved.

Fleur's embrace was firm and sure, though Hermione felt her desperate need too. One hand was splayed between her shoulders and the other was running over her breast. She wound her own into Fleur's hair and sighed against her, bringing their lips together once more.

And they pressed togetherr in the dappled light beneath the whispering trees and laughing water. They kissed and whispered to one another, sitting close and sharing in the bliss they felt. Each wanted nothing more than to express what was within her and to exalt in the story being written on her skin.

Fleur pulled back and drew shaking breaths, her lips dark and swollen. Her eyes were lit from within and something ancient there called for her. "Even in dreams, I chase you," she said, quiet and serious. "I feel as though I'm hunting you."

Hermione brushed a fallen blossom from blonde hair and studied her lover. She recognised sorrow but in a detached way. As if she was seeing something that had been described to her with her own eyes for the first time. She knew it had no place here, between them. "Then pursue me," she laughed. "But be quick about it."

Fleur's hand tightened on her breast, pressing into the flesh above her heart. "Or else I will lose you?"

Hermione closed her eyes and imagined that her heart was only a fraction of an inch from lying within Fleur's hand. It flung itself against her ribs and it seemed determined to shatter them in an effort to escape. Fleur's breath was hot on her neck as she kissed her, her teeth nipping gently against her.

"No," she breathed, her eyes unable to open. Fleur drew in a sharp breath and her grip was tight, almost suffocating, and her teeth were sharp against her throat.

"No. I'll turn and hunt you."


	14. In Between I Freeze

Dear Reader,

Well. Damn. It's been a long time since the last update. I apologise for the delay and I honestly am sorry. Despite the fact that I'd be very happy to sit and write stories all day, life has other ideas. I'd like to thank the people that sent me messages asking about this story. They were all very kind and wonderful to read though they did make me feel guilty. But that's my fault for not updating sooner.

I just want to make it clear that this story _will_ be finished. But life shows no signs of behaving itself for the next couple of months so I warn you that there might be a delay in the rest of the chapters. It'll take a while, but I'll get there.

As always, thanks to the people who've sent me messages about the story and especially those who've sent messages asking about its future. And ESPECIALLY that one person (who shall remain nameless) who sent magnificent, random and hilarious messages for the sake of it.

Well, enough blather! Let's get on with it. It's a long one, so equip yourself with a beverage.

* * *

><p>Once again, a fair dawn greeted Hermione when she woke. On this particular day, however, she was refreshed and well-rested for what felt like the first time in several years. She stood before the sink in her dormitory bathroom and carefully brushed her teeth. Lost in the familiar and comforting ritual, her mind wandered lazily as she watched water swirl over the hairline cracks in the porcelain and down the tarnished drain. Her eyes flicked up and she met her own gaze somewhat reluctantly.<p>

She felt she should have been embarrassed about the dream, that glorious escape. She had conjured a haven for her battered heart and she felt no guilt for seeking refuge, though she supposed she should have done. Her dreams were her own, she mused, one of the few corners of herself she still owned. If she could not be happy when awake then at least she could find solace in the soft corners of her psyche. She could not help smiling around the toothbrush jammed into her mouth, caught in the memory of a soft mouth and firm hands.

"Ardent caresses and such," she muttered unintelligibly through foam. But she couldn't stop smiling.

It had been so real. She could still feel Fleur's hair under her hand and taste her hot breath. Still smell the sand beneath them and the scent of Fleur's skin. Still remember the words Fleur had whispered to her and the surety of her touch. But her lover was nothing if not sure when offering affection. She'd never shown hesitance or reluctance in her embrace and if ever she'd fumbled, it had been eagerness that betrayed her.

Covered in spittle, Hermione did not feel desirable or beautiful. She felt, as she usually did, vaguely uncomfortable under her own scrutiny. But she'd never felt uncomfortable under Fleur's gaze and, though it had been nothing more than a dream, she certainly hadn't the previous night. She could still remember the excitement, the exuberance and the carefree joy beside the little stream. She'd felt playful and flirtatious, apparently more daring while asleep than she ever would be when awake.

She rinsed her mouth and stared sternly at herself. "You're supposed to be angry with her," she muttered, trying her best to remember the precise reasons for her ire. After a night of decent sleep, she could admit that her greatest source of frustration was her own inability to decipher what was going on. She shouldn't have had to rely on an external explanation to understand the situation; she should have solved the riddle for herself. She was, after all, Hermione Granger.

Her pride was slightly wounded, she knew, and it irked her that she could be so vain at such a time. But perhaps the fact that such awful things awaited downstairs was precisely the reason why she was tackling this puzzle instead. The scope of the tragedy, and the victory which was becoming more tangible as good news trickled in, was beyond her. She would remain, indeed, but seeing and comprehending did not demand reflection. That would come later, when the sting was lessened and wounds somewhat healed.

She moved back into the empty dormitory and noticed that some kind person (perhaps Fay, who had stayed in Hogwarts and was being quite solicitous to the one member of the so-called Golden Trio she felt able to approach) had left a pot of tea on the stove. She poured herself a mug and curled into a seat beneath the window, breathing deeply of the fresh air flooding in through the open panes. The sky was still ruddy with dawn's recent appearance, high wisps of cloud promising another beautiful day.

Such time alone was, she felt, essential for the day ahead. She knew that her attention would be pulled in three dozen directions and she greedily savoured the time by herself as she'd savoured the memory of her dream. She let her mind clear itself of the sorrow below her and the frustration in blonde awaiting her. She moved away from memories and worries, letting herself exist in the moment as best she could.

Unforetunately, she'd never had a talent for meditation. Her mind was a busy and purposeful place. Normal service was resuming after extended disruption and it was eager to get back to work. It was as if the destruction suffered by the school was mirrored in herself; an orderly library or office in tatters. But it was open for business again. There were still corners where rubble lay, to be sure, but the form was familiar and sturdy.

So instead of trying to escape those thoughts, she let her mind wander between them, touching briefly on different moments. She closed her eyes, images dancing behind her eyes. She was blessed with a clear memory and found the past easy to call to mind.

She thought back to the evening before, to the firm embrace between the fire and the dark forest. Clearly, Bill didn't hate her and had even offered her comfort. He held no anger towards her and she marvelled at the fact. How was it, she pondered, that he could feel no resentment towards her?

Fleur had implied that it was because she was a woman and the notion both angered and humiliated her. If their bond meant less because of her sex, then what opinion did Bill hold of relationships between women? Beyond Bill, what did their world think of the same? Was their society still seeped in Victorian sensibilities? The anger she felt at this injustice burned hot within her breast and she knew that she had to leave it, that there were many other things to consider.

She took a deep breath and tried to raise herself beyond emotion; to see the past with eyes clear of love or hate or fear or sorrow. To remember what had happened and to see if there were clues there. Her mind was slow to co-operate at first, reluctant to leave behind the emotion of those moments. Eventually, though, she began to move through the annals of her memory.

She remembered Shell Cottage and the cold sea before it. She remembered the rolling dunes and the barrier. How something perceived only at the very edge of her vision had become clear and solid as time had passed. She thought of all the conversations she'd had while close to that barrier. What was it that had drawn from the depths of her there? The knowledge that she was standing at the edge of her world? Or the knowledge that she was bounded now by someone else's magic?

The boundary had been a place of transition; a shimmering demarkation between here and there. Safety and danger. Us and them. It had been placed quite arbitrarily by Bill and Fleur, perhaps even thoughtlessly. It had never seemed confining to her, though she knew Harry had sometimes felt suffocated by the restriction of his movement. The reminder of being bound by their friends' worry and concern.

Her mind drifted again, to another boundary. Herself and Fleur within a much smaller spell, surrounded by flame. She felt her heart skip and though she tried to leave emotion behind, it was impossible to remember those hours with nothing more than bald logic. So she put them behind her, steeling herself to move away from them. Her mind snapped to work, speeding between memories and thought at the very limits of her perception.

She remembered a casual kiss pressed to the corner of her mouth. And now, with hindsight, she saw the frustration in Fleur's eyes, and the sadness, at the loneliness the other witch had perceived in her. The urge to soothe and calm overriding common sense and disregarding borders and niceties between them.

Fleur blue and desperate with fear as she'd been bodily restrained from leaping into the Black Lake. She, along with Cedric Diggory, had been fighting to return to that icy water and Hermione had been amazed, wondering how anyone could willingly face those frigid depths again. Surprise at Fleur's heartfelt tears as she'd wrapped her little sister in a towel and kissed her brow.

Realisation that Fleur was more than an aloof and somewhat snobbish girl from Beauxbatons. Seeing her courage and her curiosity. Her easy acceptance of the additions to her household and her quick friendships. The desire to get to know her properly. To fathom her blithe joy, an unfamiliar and enticing creature that shimmered before her.

Remembering a childish infatuation with Tonks with great embarrassment. Remembering the way that sunlight lit Ms Teller's long hair as she stood writing on the blackboard. Remembering the panic the first time Lavender had changed in front of her.

Reading _The Viminal Enchantment_ with eager eyes. An elicit thrill as she huddled in the quiet, late night pouring through that strange new world. Wondering if there were other tales like them and who was this Sappho woman. The thrill when she'd found the answer watching television with her parents. Yearning for more knowledge and being sorely disappointed when she failed to find any.

Luna's sad expression as they'd spoken about her jumbled emotions. The wisdom in those strange grey eyes hard earned and full of sadness. The loss of her mother. The tiny shadow of hope that mention of her uncle had provided. A hope Hermione dared not name or even face.

Ron's eyes hard as he grumbled about Fleur. Had he seen something? Was she really, as he'd put it, a sly one? Had she herself been blind in her vulnerability and infatuation? Or had he merely projected his guilt and frustration onto their hostess?

Ron turning his hunched back to her. Laying his heavy arm over her and asking her why his brother was dead. His blush and hopeful eyes when she'd kissed his cheek. His rough stubble had seemed so strange compared to Fleur's smooth skin. His hands had fluttered around her then, not knowing quite what to do and settling on patting her shoulder awkwardly. Relief that he hadn't pressed forward.

A moment when she almost stepped forward and pressed herself to Fleur, when she longed to answer the call. Longed to dive into the current between them.

The moment when Fleur had proposed the plan or rather the moment prior to that, when hope and queasy excitement had flared in Hermione's chest. She'd known what Fleur was going to say before she opened her mouth and part of her had almost flown apart in glee.

_"It could hurt you."_

_"I am not what you think I am. Who you think I am."_

_"Taking away your choice."_

Fleur giving her the new wand. Herself handing Fleur the branch of May Blossom. Fleur's hair left in exchange for the wood. Some other thing left in exchange for her grandmother's hair. A debt yet to be paid. Many gifts given.

Disappointment and guilt warring at Fleur's withdrawal. Part of her had cried out, a wounded animal perversely longing to pursue this source of pain rather than flee it. Her confusion had muddled her and she'd been unable to bring her intellect to bear on the conversation. Logic had fled her, chased by frustration and bitter loss.

_"Other moments I could give or other sacrifices to make…"_

_"Not even the most important thing in a relationship."_

_"A gift that can only be given once."_

Seeing finally Fleur's worry and her anguish. Her pain and her own longing. She'd not understood it then but could see now, in the light from the parlour firelight, how desire and want had burned beneath Fleur's tears. Chasing her own torment as well. Her frightening anguish after Hermione had joked about changing her mind.

_"I was going to lie to you."_

_"I lied."_

_"Anything I say will make a traitor of me."_

Duelling on the beach and constantly aware of the still, stiff figures watching them. Had they spoken, then, about Fleur's plan? She'd almost taken Dean's head off with a rending hex when they'd walked off, arms around each other.

_"I promise you, I will tell you."_

Providing comfort. Offering succour. Feeling strange and proud that she was able to soothe Fleur's pain, if only for a moment. The desperation as Fleur had held her but the restraint, too. It had felt as though she'd been in a vice at the time but she knew now the true strength of Fleur's embrace. Knew that she'd been holding back.

The relief after a nightmare. The urge to press Fleur into her bed and indulge her envy of Bill by kissing her there and then, tangled in their sheets. Horror that such an impulse could grip her. The dryness of her mouth as Fleur had gasped her name as she writhed beneath her. The thumping of her heart and throbbing between her legs when Fleur had awoken and showered her with affection, obviously painfully glad to see her. Frustration that she couldn't solve the mystery. Desire unlike anything she'd ever felt before, pounding through her as she perched there. Worry that Fleur would know how excited she was and…

Cautiously imagining a future between them. Knowing that she had no future with deep and utter certainty. Bemused now that she obviously did.

Teddy in her arms. Fleur's daughter in her arms. The aching sadness that threatened when she thought about the possibility that the little girl would never be born. Amusement at the older child's precise accent.

_"This is between you and her."_

_"This is life and death."_

_"If you love her, don't let this pass by."_

_"You can't help who you love."_

_"The damage is done."_

Knowing what had to be done. Knowing what her heart and soul demanded. The urgency and confusion in the parlour.

_"There is so much I would have you know."_

_"You shouldn't trust me."_

Fire within a circle. Bound by blood. Bare skin beneath the stars on Beltaine. Sand shifting beneath her.

Only love

Overwhelming sensation. Heat and pressure. The cool sea air and the crackle of the fire. Stars wheeling as shining eyes held her own. The surf pounding. The wetness of Fleur's mouth. Between their legs.

_"Don't stop, please."_

_"Go inside me."_

_"Together through the circle."_

Promises made on the beach. Playful as they returned to the cottage. Fleur as pleased with herself as she was.

A pair of otters.

Opening the Chamber of Secrets and destroying the cup. Surprised at how easily it had been pierced by the great fang.

_"Now is not the time or place, Hermione."_

_"I love you."_

"Hermione? Are you all right?"

Startled, she almost spilled the dregs of her tea. She turned and say Fay standing nearby, polite concern written on her face. Taking a short breath, Hermione nodded, blinking slowly to clear her mind and return to the present. Despite the fact that she'd been sitting still, she felt as though she'd just run a race. She felt uneasy too, unnerved and anxious. Fay eyed her curiously but did not enquire again about her state.

"You wanted to be called at eight, to go down?" she asked, obviously unsure and reluctant to disturb her.

"Ah," Hermione sighed. "Yes. Thank you. I'll head down now."

She frowned and suspected that a scowl twisted her face. She felt as though the answer was just beyond her grasp; her fingers brushing the edge in vain. The answer was there, she was sure of it, if only she could see it.

Regretfully, she laid her mug down on a tray and ran her fingers through her hair. Life, it appeared, was not keen to give her the time to work though this mystery. She cast a last, longing glance back at the window seat before turning to leave.

* * *

><p>Fleur slowed to a sedate and dignified walk as she entered Hogwarts. Much to her chagrin, she'd slept all of the previous night away. She'd only intended to lay her head down for an hour or two but had woken to the dawn's chorus. Her mother and sister had been sound asleep so she'd dressed quickly and quietly before heading off at a trot to the school.<p>

She'd berated herself on the walk over and felt properly chastised as she slid through the great doors. The hall was relatively quiet at that early hour despite the numerous people contained therein. Most were asleep beside the biers of their loved ones, or waking reluctantly as dusty beams of sunlight stretched over the flagstones. United to mourn their loved ones, they presented identical faces; drawn and grey. Dressed in black, dishevelled and sporting the same lost expression, there was little to distinguish one from another. Sadness tightened Fleur's chest. Had they not lost enough of their humanity already?

Fleur felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth, though, as her eyes drifted to the top of the room. Madame Maxime tended to stand out in a crowd and this occasion was no different. The tall woman was speaking quietly with a pair of wizards and Fleur moved towards them, standing at a polite distance. Her former headmistress spied her and excused herself from the men. She turned to face Fleur, a wistful look softening her broad face.

"Fleur, my dear," she sighed, embracing her former student with immense but gentle arms. "I am so very glad to see you."

"The feeling is entirely mutual," Fleur whispered, her arms barely able to meet around the waist of the woman holding her. She drew backwards and smiled wanly. "Thank you for bringing Gabrielle. How is she doing in school?"

The giantess shook her head. "She is bright and very talented. Sadly, she is also one of the most baffling dreamers I have ever encountered. She delights in fantasy and finds school work a chore. Having known both yourself and your mother at her age, and seeing no resemblance, I have no choice but to blame your father."

Fleur laughed at that. "She is largely harmless."

"Largely. But she is a mystery to me. She lives within her own mind more than other children. Where is she?"

"With my mother. She secured a room in the Three Broomsticks, though it is a squash with we four and Bill," Fleur said, immediately regretting her words. She saw the other witch's face cloud over and she cursed herself for mentioning her husband. The only angry words they'd ever shared had been on his account and Fleur was in no mood revisit an old argument.

"His brother was killed during the battle," Fleur said, quietly, hoping that such information would temper Maxime's treatment of the man. "Fred. One of the twins."

Maxime's face folded in sorrow for a moment, evidently sparing a quick thought for the boy. It had become such a familiar sight over the last several days, Fleur mused. The respectful pause to honour the dead and compose oneself. It was strange seeing it cross Madame Maxime's face, though. It seemed exaggerated on her wide features and though it was not in the slightest insincere, there was something surreal about the sight.

But what was real, anymore? The world around them existed, certainly. There was no denying what one could see and touch, after all. But it was almost illusory, like catching a glimpse of an unwelcome intruder in waving curtain. This new world had been draped over what they knew, hanging and snagging awkwardly on familiar features as the shrouds in the dungeon had.

As unreal as it was, Fleur felt that it was not truly transient. The vestments and wreaths would be removed but the memories would linger, haunting and bubbling through the souls of those who'd stood witness. They could peel back this shroud to find their world changed utterly. Part of Fleur was desperate to see this, to rush from this necropolis and see how their world had reformed. To witness the promised phoenix.

Another part of her, though, was terrified to leave. What if there was nothing there but burnt bones and scorched feathers? What if the world was _not_ reborn, despite their efforts? What if nothing had truly changed? The phoenix had been Dumbledore's dream but he had not lived to see it.

_If he ever believed in it at all_, Fleur thought, bitterly. She felt a brief flare of anger but dismissed it. Now was not the time to revisit that particular memory. Besides, it seemed a most ungracious time to think ill of the dead.

Maxime sighed and Fleur canted her head upwards, feeling as though she was a tiny child again. It was not a wholly unpleasant experience.

"This… I have never seen such a thing," she said, as softly as she could. They were shielded by their language to a certain degree but several mourners turned tired eyes to them. "I…" she drew a deep breath and clenched a fist the size of a Christmas ham. "Those filthy bastards. I hope to heaven that I never find myself with one of them for I will snap their necks, Fleur."

Fleur heard rocky knuckles creak and laid her hand on Maxime's mighty hand. Her headmistress had been blessed with a most wicked temper and these poor people did not need to be exposed to her rage. More eyes flitted over them, comprehension lacking, and Fleur felt like a foreigner again, alien in the grey sea of quiet British despair. All the same, she agreed with her former headmistress and for a savage moment wished she'd been there, too. The thought entered her mind and was chased by the memory of Fenrir Greyback's pungent blood rolling over her. Her throat leapt with the image and she clenched a hand as she felt the blood drain from her face. Maxime must have sensed her distress for she turned to fix her with a firm gaze and Fleur was a child again; waiting to be punished for her transgressions.

Thankfully, Minerva McGonagall approached Maxime with a solemn bow and Fleur took the opportunity to leave, sketching a polite nod to the pair of witches. She found herself close to Fred's coffin and moved softly towards the dozing Weasleys. Molly, her face ashen and slack in fitful sleep, was rumpled and wan as she lay against Arthur's shoulder in the morning light. George was sprawled in a chair, his tired eyes unfocused as he held a mug of steaming tea. Harry and Ron were between Fred and Tonk's coffin, bleary eyed and a touch unsteady in their seats. Fleur smiled and approached them, the least intimidating choice available to her.

Harry blinked at her, taking his glasses off and pressing the heel of one hand into an eye socket. His hair was greasy and limp, curling over his ears and the loosened collar of his handsome robes.

"Morning," he muttered. Ron somehow managed to turn a yawn into a greeting. Molly's youngest son was equally exhausted and despite the fact that his robes were brand new and fashionably cut, he appeared somewhat shabby.

"Good morning," she replied, folding her arms in front of her chest. She tired not to look at the remains of her friends, focusing on the young men before her. "Did you sleep?"

"Maybe for a quarter of an hour," Harry said, catching Ron's yawn. "At least, I think we did."

Fleur felt her face fold into a sad smile as fondness overcame her. Despite his hard won maturity, there was something boyish about Harry in that moment. Charming and sympathetic. The image of a little boy trying to wipe the smudges from his wand with the corner of his robes flashed before her eyes. She would have given almost anything to stand in that moment again.

"Perhaps it might be time to sleep for a while." She suggested as kindly as she could manage. "Why not retire now and come back in the afternoon or evening?"

Harry and Ron shared a glance, simultaneously optimistic and guilty. Clearly, they were in need of sleep but entirely reluctant to leave. Fleur drew herself to her full height and lifted her eyebrows.

"You won't be any good to anyone if you fall asleep while standing up. Go to bed. We will stand with them," she said, nodding towards Lupin's coffin. The boys left, Harry throwing a grateful nod her way. Exhaustion was written into every step they took and Fleur grimaced on their behalf. She hoped they'd be sensible and take a lengthy nap. She took Harry's seat between Fred and Tonks and drew a deep breath, ready for another day.

* * *

><p>Hermione quickly ate several slices of toast slathered in marmalade in the common room, tugging her robes into some semblance of order around her. She flicked her hair back from her face and took another sip of coffee, trying to finish her cup. She was more or less alone this morning, one of the few who'd slept more than a few hours and felt able to face the day. Even the portraits were catching up on lost sleep.<p>

She set her mug down and flicked her hair back from her face again, striding for the portrait hole. Beyond, the school was deserted. Her footsteps echoed in the dusty air and the gentle swish of her hems still sent clouds of dust swirling, suspended in the airless corridors. It was disconcerting, the silence and the dancing motes. She ducked her head and hurried onwards. Her journey came to an abrupt end, however, when she swung around a corner and straight into another student.

Hermione struggled to regain her balance, arms flung out as she bounced back from the solid body she'd flown into.

"I'm sorry!" she squeaked, "I'm awfully sorry, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

"'S'all right, Hermione," said solid body sighed and Hermione realised that she'd ploughed into Neville. She blinked and peered up at him, his flat tone earning her anxious attention. She saw that her friend was dressed in grand dark robes, mournful and solemn but beautifully tailored. She tilted her head to better see him and realised that there was nothing but sorrow written into his face. Hermione reached out to him and realised just how big Neville was now. There'd been a time when she'd been taller than him, for goodness sake. For all that, he looked so young. Young and heart broken.

"Neville?" she asked softly, "are you all right?"

The tall wizard sighed, his round shoulders more hunched than they had been in years. After some effort, he lifted his eyes to meet hers and gave a helpless little shrug.

"It's nothing, only something stupid," he said bravely. She resisted the urge to shake her head at him. Didn't he realise that it was all right now? That it was their time to be sad and unsure and generally a bit crap?

"Neville?" she coaxed, causing him to drop his eyes. She took his arm and swivelled her head in an effort to catch his eye. "What's going on?"

He was silent for a long time, unmoving and morose in the morning light. Finally, he lifted teary eyes and shook his head.

"I thought they'd be better," he said, his voice breaking at the end.

Hermione's heart broke for him. Her mind, burdened and cluttered with a million and ten things, emptied. It was akin to the sharp crack of apparition, this sudden psychic vacancy. But nature is said to abhor a vacuum and she filled with pity for her friend. Overwhelmed with pathos, she hugged him tightly. Desperate arms embraced her and she felt tremors wrack his lanky body.

"Hermione," he sniffled, "I thought that, you know, if _they_ were gone then mam and dad would be better."

She gripped him fiercely, unwilling to look her friend in the eye. There was no recovery from the kind of evil inflicted on the Longbottoms. Alice and Frank would spend the rest of their days helpless guests of St Mungo's. And Neville would spend those days visiting them, always hoping for a miracle. Waiting for their shattered sanity to rebuild itself. For the parents he'd never known but had heard so much about.

Hermione was gripped with a sudden and intense desire to see her own parents. It robbed her breath again and left her bare before that awful clarity. She desperately wished that Neville's heavy arms were those of her father. She wished that the heart beating under her ear was her mother's. She wished that they were still in Oxford, patiently waiting for her to return. She felt tears well and never had she regretted her actions more. Never had she felt their absence so keenly, not even in the woods. What had she been thinking, to willingly send them away?

Her chest ached, as though her ribs had once again been broken as she realised the full implications of her actions. She'd completely removed her parents from her life. She'd planned and schemed before calmly and with great calculation removing their memories! She was as much an orphan as Neville now for if she were to stand face to face with them, they'd see a stranger. No recognition would light their eyes.

Rita Skeeter was right. She was nothing but heartless to have erased their memories and send them away. To have tampered with such precious parts of them simply because it was the most expedient way to get them out of her hair. She'd seen them as something to worry about; something to be _managed_.

And by God, she'd managed them. Where was reason, then? Where was her prized rationality and good sense? She'd never even tried to explain the situation to them, always fobbing them off or dissembling if the conversation turned to darker themes. What arrogance! To presume that she knew best! That she could make that decision for them.

Her breath started to come more quickly and she clenched her fists in Neville's robes, tears burned from her wide eyes. What kind of person was she?

Heartless.

"Hermione?" Neville murmured. "Are you all right?"

She screwed her eyes closed and pulled back, teeth clenched against her shame. She nodded to him and he was either perceptive enough to realise that she needed to be left alone or oblivious to her upset.

The gentle, and somewhat awkward, pat he gave her shoulder hinted at the former, though. He stepped past her and paused, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Thanks, Hermione. Sorry to be all…"

"No," Hermione bit, clearing her throat. "No," she said more normally, "it's all right. Don't apologise, please."

Neville nodded and turned to leave. He seemed to think better of it and frowned at her, making a clear attempt to marshall himself.

"I'm coming back. I want to do research in a couple of fields in Herbology and I need my NEWTS for that. I don't know if the school will still be the same," he said, a little hollow bark of a laugh ending his sentence, "but I'll be here."

The question was implicit and the thought flashed through her mind that, all else aside, if her mother and father found out she hadn't even finished _secondary school_ they'd likely disown her. But could she return here? As much as she yearned to, as much as she craved it, something in her told her that it would be impossible.

That once you leave, you can never go home.

* * *

><p>"He was my favourite teacher," a young man said, eyes downcast and voice soft. "He was always fair and he didn't put up with any bullying."<p>

"He was a good man," Fleur agreed. Lupin's face was solemn as he lay in repose, scarred and thin. Worn down by the many burdens he had borne.

"Are you his family?" the boy asked, turning slightly from the coffin.

"No," Fleur replied. "He had no family save his son, who is having a bath at the minute." Andromeda knew that Teddy was far to young to understand anything aside from milk and warmth but she still felt the need to have her grandson close to his parents, for as long as possible. She'd been greatly relieved when Fleur had offered to sit with Lupin and Tonks, hurrying off with Teddy dozing in her embrace.

The boy flushed and folded his arms. "Yeah. It's awful. I mean, wasn't he only a few days old?"

Fleur nodded and cast herself back to that evening in the kitchen. The wonderful news had cut through the pall enveloping their spirits, not to mention the dreadful awkwardness between herself and Hermione. They'd seemed invincible for a moment; as though their victory was assured. Everyone had accepted that they'd be around to see Teddy grow up. That they were all embarking on a grand adventure with him at the centre.

The boy excused himself and Fleur nodded, distracted. Who would watch Teddy grow now? His grandmother? Harry? How dreadful it must be to not have the love of your parents. Teddy would know that his mother and father had loved him enough to lay their lives down for his future but how would a child understand that? When she'd been young, she'd known she was loved because no matter what else was going on, if she'd been in need, her parents showered affection upon her. Love hadn't been something that one could have explained to her then, it had been the backdrop to her existence. A constant buffer against the ills and hardships of the world. A barrier of kinds.

It was strange, how love changed. She still loved her parents but she liked to think she wasn't a child anymore. She no longer needed to hide herself in their robes to escape the difficult parts of life. She understood now their pride in her and how they'd exposed themselves to great pain by giving her their blessing to compete in the Tournament. How they'd trusted her to remain in Britain despite the danger. A small part of her had been dismissive of this sentiment. She was a grown woman and did not need her parents' permission to live her life.

But that was a childish part of her. No matter how old she grew, no matter that her parents interacted with her as an adult, she knew that part of them would always see her as the screaming, helpless infant placed on her mother's chest. She could accept this, though, because it mean that no matter what she did or how she acted, they would still love her. She would always have a home with them.

Fleur sighed and ran a hand through her hair. The hall was getting busier as the morning wore on. She felt a small amount of guilt at her relief that few approached her, leaving her mind free to wander.

She thought about Shell Cottage. About the quiet, peaceful days with Bill when they'd poured their energy into fixing and shaping the little house. What a shock it had been, that evening so long ago when her wards been breached and she'd been sure that death was waiting on the beach. She'd understood that there was an urgent need to help those that arrived and had thrown herself into their care, with only fleeting worry about what this would mean for herself and Bill.

Her heart warmed with the memories and she ached to return to that home they'd all created. She would always be welcomed with open arms into her mother and father's home but she'd had her _own_. Or rather, she'd had a share in one.

She turned and saw Bill, his broad back to her. He was across the hall, speaking to a group of witches and wizards roughly his own age. Her lips twitched and she knew that building their cosy home would have been impossible without him. When they'd arrived, Shell Cottage had been a damp, musty, cold place. They'd made it habitable and very comfortable; a refuge from the world and the war. It had been peaceful at a time when her heart had needed peace and it was only after the arrival of their guests that she'd realised how much she'd missed living in a lively house.

Growing up, she'd always imagined living in a house like her own; chaotic, cheerful and warm. The reality of Shell Cottage had been somewhat different, as there was only a limited amount of chaos that herself and Bill could generate. As different as it had been from her upbringing, it had soothed her heart. What would it be like to return there, just herself and Bill?

Quiet, she supposed. She found the thought quite lonesome and wondered if it wouldn't be possible to bring Gabrielle with her for a while.

Or Hermione.

What a thought! Her heart lurched in her chest and she clenched her fist. It was so tempting, so glorious a notion, that she couldn't bear to face it in this charnel house. She couldn't dwell on it because if she did, she was quite likely to lose whatever bit of self-control she'd managed to piece together and throw herself at her lover's feet, begging her to stay.

She felt her eye twitch. Her grandmother would have hexed her if she'd been privy to such nonsense. She turned her attention back to the crowd, trying to spot Bill, and was quite surprised when a lean, pale young man approached her. Surprise turned to shock when she realised that the haggard man before her was none other than Roger Davies.

"Roger," she said, standing and embracing him for a long moment. He was gaunt, the bones of his shoulders sharp beneath her hands. She drew back and took in the dark rings beneath his eyes, feeling something within her creak. He'd been so handsome.

"Hello Fleur," he said, his voice hoarse and low. "You're with poor old Lupin, eh?"

His eyes moved to the still figure and Fleur stepped away from him, allowing him a moment to pay his respects. She couldn't recall having seen him in Hogwarts during the battle and she suspected, by the shaky, nervous way he edged towards the coffins, that he'd only just arrived at the wake. That said, the last time she'd seen him, his hair had shone in the sunlight and an easy smile had crowded his face. She could have passed him ten times and not recognised him.

"Poor bastard," he said, quietly.

"Indeed," Fleur agreed. "He left behind a son, days old."

Roger swirled to gawk at her, mouth hanging open. "Really?"

Fleur nodded. "This is Nympadora Tonks. She was his wife."

Roger turned to cast a quick eye over Tonks and something darkened his face. "He got married. Seems to be catching."

Fleur frowned, catching the hint of anger in the man's voice. "Roger-"

"No, shit. I'm sorry," he sighed, deflating at the touch of her sharp rebuke. He sank onto a stool beside Lupin's coffin, his face lowered. "Sorry."

Fleur sighed and sat beside him, unable to remain too angry with him. After all, it wasn't as if he didn't have something to be annoyed about.

"Bill Weasley," he snorted, turning to fix his bleary eyes on her. "Now _there's_ one I didn't see coming. Would have been worth sticking around for that."

Fleur felt her face flush and shook her head, feeling her ire rise again. "But you didn't. You left without a word. I never took you for a coward, Roger, to run away," she snapped. For the second time that morning, she regretted her words the second they'd left her mouth and she bit her lip, wondering how to apologise.

Roger's face fell and he ran his hand through his lanky hair. "Well. I was never brave, you know that. Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor."

She was silent for a long moment, old wounds opening as she sat beside the young man. Memories of a broken heart collided with those of a time of optimism and hope. She frowned, a dim memory flitting to her mind.

"You never wrote to me, after the tournament. You promised you would."

He laughed, a humourless bark, and shrugged. "I made lots of promises. Never was good at keeping them. I… when I heard about Bill and all that, I left."

Fleur drew in a long breath and was shocked to realise that tears were welling in her eyes at the memory of that awful time. She frowned and shook her head, unwilling to dwell on it.

"I don't blame you," she said, quietly. "If I'd been wise, I would have done the same."

Roger chuckled. "For someone so intelligent, you were completely witless back then. You didn't have a shred of common sense. I… I think it was better, though."

Fleur shook her head. "Perhaps. Good sense is always hard earned. Where did you go?"

"About," he shrugged. "I ended up in South Africa, on the coast. Not many wizards, happily."

Fleur bit her tongue at the unkind remark that attempted to escape from behind her teeth. Roger and herself had not parted on the best of terms and she was surprised at the anger she still felt towards him. And the pity.

"But enough," he said, very softly. "I'm from an old family, pure blood. They came for me and I had to run."

Fleur knew enough to know that she did not want to delve any deeper into this conversation, not in the middle of the Great Hall with ears sprouting from every surface like mushrooms after rain.

"We should talk later, Roger," she said, firmly. "In a better place."

He nodded and stood up, wiping at moist eyes. "We will. I'll… I'll send you an owl, if that's all right."

Fleur smiled. "Please do."

He took a deep breath, casting one last look at Lupin and seemed to shrink into his formal robes, small and fragile in their heavy folds.

"I want… I mean, I never meant to be such a coward," he said quietly. "I wanted to come back but," an agonised expression crossed his face, "I heard about Bill and… and god, I just couldn't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Fleur felt her heart reach out to him, as lost as he'd been when she'd first met him. But at least he'd been happy then, still ignorant of the trials ahead of them all.

"It's all right," she said, as kindly as she could. "We can't all be brave, all the time."

"No," he agreed, eyes meeting her own, filled with disappointment, "but I thought you could be."

* * *

><p>Hermione watched Molly stumble from the hall, supported by Arthur and Percy. Her family had finally persuaded her to take a break and get some proper sleep. Exhausted, the poor woman had grudgingly promised to spend a couple of hours in Gryffindor Tower but only after a combined assault by Arthur, Percy, Charlie, George and Ginny.<p>

George couldn't be moved. He refused to leave Fred's side for more than a toilet break or to change his clothes. While there'd been a concerted effort to persuade the Weasley matriarch to rest, none had so much as suggested the same to George. He was sound asleep, though, lying on a thick blanket on the floor, his head cradled in Angelina Johnson's lap. Sharing the blanket with them was Hermione herself, Charlie, Ginny and Lee Evans, who was also sound asleep though without as pleasant a pillow as George.

Sitting on the ground, tucked into an alcove beneath one of the immense hall windows, they had managed to gain some semblance of privacy. Seated low, they were beneath the dome of a muffling charm that Alicia Spinnet had cast the evening before when their singing had continued after many others had succumbed to sleep, slumped in chairs beside their loved ones.

Angelina ran her fingers fondly through George's hair, her movement soft and careful. She looked tired but not sleepy as she leaned against the cool stone of the wall.

"Do you remember the time they put a boggart in the Slytherin ball chest?" Ginny asked, smiling broadly. "I thought Flint was going to wet himself."

Charlie laughed at that and Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Ha! Where'd they get a bloody boggart from?"

"Well, they never said but this _was_ when Moody was teaching Defence so…" Angelina replied.

"Moody who was Crouch, right?" Charlie asked, his freckled brow folded as he tried to recall. "Some bloody weird stuff went on in this school after I left, didn't it?"

"You don't know the half of it," Ginny muttered.

_And neither do you!_ Hermione mused, trying not to smile to herself.

"Do you think we'll ever hear the full story?" Angelina asked. "You know, about all the things that went on?"

All eyes swung to Hermione and she shrugged. "I don't know. I honestly don't. I don't think anybody ever knew the full story, really. Perhaps not even Dumbledore."

"What about Harry?" Charlie asked, incredulous. "I mean, he won. Surely he was in the know."

Hermione found herself reluctant to comment on such things and shrugged as eloquently as she could. Lee snorted in his sleep and turned onto his back, earning a round of quiet laughter. Angelina and Ginny started talking about quidditch and Charlie took a leather gauntlet out of his robes, continuing his repairs on a frayed seam.

Hermione leaned her chin on her knee and watched Charlie's large, dextrous hands push the needle through the holes he'd punched the previous evening. He worked slowly but at a very even pace and Hermione found it oddly soothing to watch him. It was refreshing to see someone do something by hand, for once.

She thought back to poor Neville and felt tears begin to well. The desire that had filled her to find her mother and father had not waned and she found herself imaging how they'd fit in here, amongst this broken wizarding world. After all, the wards around Hogwarts were in disarray, having been utterly destroyed by Voldemort and his army. There were temporary measures in place but they were a stop gap at best. If a muggle really wanted to enter Hogwarts, she suspected they would do so with little trouble.

She smiled sadly. She knew how her parents would act. They'd offer their condolences and assistance, in that order. They'd quietly help with tea or other small tasks, unobtrusive and purposeful. Perhaps they'd have been able to offer comfort to Molly.

But they were thousands of miles away and they didn't have a clue about the magical world or about her. Maybe they were better off without her, she mused. Maybe this was the right time to free them from the secrets that producing a witch demanded. At least they'd be able to tell the truth, albeit a false version of the truth.

She knew she wouldn't leave them, though. She'd use the last of her savings, galleon and sterling, to get to Australia and undo the enchantments. What ever happened, she'd give her parents back their proper identity.

And then be disowned.

She scowled to herself. Surely they wouldn't; she was being entirely melodramatic. They'd be annoyed and angry, no doubt there, but they'd come around.

Eventually.

Hopefully.

Charlie put his bracer away and rubbed a tired hand across his face. He smiled crookedly at her and she replied in kind.

"You arrived with Victor Krum," she said, leaning towards the stocky man. "How come?"

"Well, we both got the message at the same time. We were sitting in a pub with the lads, having some dinner, when the call came through."

Angelina and Ginny's quidditch sensitised ears pricked up and wide eyes focused on Charlie. "You pal about with Victor Krum?"

Hermione listened with half an ear as Charlie described how he'd gotten to know Victor after the tournament. The young man had been told by Dumbledore to seek Charlie if he wanted to do better, should he ever encounter another dragon. They'd formed a small cell of the Order, quietly recruiting from isolated communities in Eastern Europe who did not hold truck with the idea of some silly gang of English wizards threatening to expose their world.

Hermione looked out over the hall, watching people come and go, though her view was obscured by the biers to either side. The sounds of the Great Hall were muffled but not inaudible and she heard a familiar voice, singing nearby. Closing her eyes, she listened with every bit of her aural prowess. Fleur was singing a low, light song in a quiet voice. It sounded like a lullaby though Hermione couldn't understand the words. Straightening her spine, she peered over the top of Tonk's coffin, seeing Fleur cradling Teddy to her chest, singing as she rubbed his back.

The baby jerked, startling himself and Fleur stopped singing, congratulating him for his ability to belch instead. The beautiful witch hadn't happened to look her way and was unaware of Hermione's keen scrutiny. She adjusted her grip and stroked his blue hair, smiling softly at him.

_She's much better at that than I am. She looks so comfortable with him._

Hermione remembered that Fleur had once told her that while she did want children, the time hadn't been right for her. That had been during the most hopeless point of the war and Hermione realised that many would now think the time perfect for having babies. Hadn't a lot of muggle wars been followed by baby booms?

A sick feeling spread through her belly at the notion. Whatever about having an affair with someone's wife you could absolutely not have an affair with someone's _mum_. Hermione's moral compass may have been somewhat off-centre recently but there were some lines one did not cross under _any_ circumstances.

Aside from that, what if Fleur's future no longer included children at all? What if that had been the cost of the spell? Hermione felt her throat tighten and turned her face away, shame and despair swelling within her.

What sort of wretch was she? She'd thought she was a good person but her actions had shown otherwise. She wrapped her arms around herself as disgust at her behaviour welled up, choking her. Ginny must have noticed something, for she raised an inquisitive eyebrow but before she had a chance to speak, Hermione's field of vision was filled with light blonde hair.

"Do you mind if I sit?" Luna asked, sitting cross-legged before Hermione had a chance to reply. She smiled serenely at the rest of the group, who greeted her before returning to their conversation. Ginny's eyes stayed fixed on her for a long moment, curious and shrewd, before she nodded minutely and looked away.

"That looks incredibly comfy, doesn't it?" she asked, nodding towards George with her chin.

"I suppose," Hermione muttered half-heartedly. With no warning, she found herself tugged down, spilling into Luna's lap before she could catch her balance. She struggled to sit up but Luna's hand held her head onto a cushion she'd conjured in a spare half second.

"Be careful," she said, unusually firmly. Hermione froze, not quite knowing what to do when Luna used that tone of voice. "Your swarming with Praecox Imps."

"I'm what?"

"Shh," Luna said, combing her thing hands through her hair. "Just stay still, I'll get rid of them."

Angelina and Ginny smiled indulgently and Hermione, heart sore, let herself be calmed by Luna's gentle attention. She closed her eyes and where she'd been unable earlier to leave thought, she found herself content to concentrate on the sensation. On the friendly affection.

And though it made her angry with her own weakness, she couldn't help but wish that she was resting against Fleur.

* * *

><p>Several members of the Order shook Fleur's hand, Kingsley bowing to Mrs Tonks. The little space had become crowded so Fleur took her leave, glancing to one side as she went. Hermione was curled in Luna's lap, apparently asleep, and Fleur smiled somewhat sadly.<p>

_Well, at least there's someone there to look after her._

She continued on, eyes scanning for Bill. It was late in the afternoon and she hadn't spoken to him all day. His absence struck her as slightly unusual and she wondered if he'd headed to the lake shore to assist in the grim task being undertaken there. She found herself wanting to see him, still disturbed after speaking to Roger.

Roger. She hadn't thought about him in so long. They'd parted on bad terms but she'd still extracted a promise that he keep in touch. It annoyed her that he'd left them all at such an important time but part of her understood why he'd done so. She was surprised at how agitated she was and deduced that since she'd known Roger when she was a teenager, she was now acting like a teenager again.

Sighing, she headed for the door, hoping to take in some fresh air. The courtyard was full and she found herself wandering away from it, enjoying the golden evening sun on her skin. It was wonderfully quiet away from the crowd, the lack of human chatter a balm on her frayed nerves. She headed for a spot she remembered as particularly pleasant, hoping that she could kill two birds with one stone.

She stood on a little terrace surrounded by raised beds. In better times, they'd been filled with kitchen herbs for the pot but now sported dandelions and an impressively large thistle. The main attraction, however, was the spectacular view afforded of the lake and its closest shore.

She spent a minute enjoying the play of slanted light, the grey water burnished and still. Trees whispered and birds called. Summer was heaving around her and her heart was momentarily lightened.

The sight of clusters of figures surrounding dark voids and piles of earth undid this with impressive rapidity. She saw several flashes of red hair, one of which was attached to a Bill-shaped body. She looked away, back over the cold waters of the lake.

"Good evening, Fleur."

Fleur started and whirled, her hand reaching for her wand in the moment before she recognised the queen. Feeling quite silly, she laid her hand on her heart and sighed, shaking her head. The queen tipped her head to one side but seemed quite unrepentant about scaring her. She smiled brightly from her seat on the raised bed, one hand on her bent knee.

"Good evening, your-"

"Senka."

Fleur's mouth snapped shut and she nodded. "Senka. What brings you here?" she asked, as politely as she could manage. "Are you here to join the wake?"

"It is not my place," she said, smiling sadly. "There isn't anyone there I know. Besides, do you think I'd be allowed in on my own? It would cause a fuss to appear with a dozen warriors, don't you think?"

Fleur nodded and sat beside the queen, the pair of them looking out over the lake in companionable silence for a moment. "Did you know, I failed the second task down there."

"In the Tournament?" Senka asked, curious. The queen loved hearing stories and she leaned forward, silver eyes keen.

"Yes. We were bid swim down and rescue something precious from the bottom of the lake. We weren't told what it was but I was determined to gain the lead, to make up for the ridiculous marks awarded me in the first task. So I swam as quickly as I could, racing faster than prudent, and I was the first to meet the grindylows."

Senka grimaced. "Those are horrible little things. Nasty."

"I should have let Victor take the lead. After all, he was quite fearsome at the time, what with being half shark."

"Indeed." The queen agreed. She waited for the rest but Fleur had told the tale many times and couldn't bring herself to go into her shameful performance again. Senka nodded, letting the topic drop with good grace (because she too knew how it ended) then grinned in a conspiratorial manner and wrinkled her nose. "I have taken care of one of your problems."

Fleur blinked, trying for a moment to remember which problems she'd told the queen about. The other woman seemed proud of herself and was eager to talk, not waiting for Fleur to hazard a guess.

"That noxious woman, the animagus. Well, she's trapped now for an entire month. She won't be able to change her form."

Fleur's eyes widened and she turned incredulous eyes to the other witch. "But, how?"

Senka tutted with mock disappointment. "Ah, Fleur! How many of our youngsters learn how to take other forms? If we couldn't control them, we'd be overrun with adolescents in the shapes of wild animals! The binding is not simple but when you've done it as often as I have…"

The implication was clear. Skeeter was no longer a worry and she could finally talk to Hermione. She was quite tempted to leap off the wall and get Bill but she was fully cognisant of the fact that interrupting someone while they were digging a grave would not do. She bit her lip, hope lighting in her chest. Perhaps they could sort all this out, after all.

"Fleur," Senka said, interrupting her train of thought, "have you ever thought about exploring that part of you? Are you curious to discover what form you would take?"

Disappointed to have to move along another track, Fleur shrugged ruefully. "I don't think that an otter would be much use to the veela, somehow."

"An otter? My. How adorable."

"But not the most useful of creatures, especially not in a battle." The veela tended to be quite fierce, often taking the form of bears or wolves when changed. Many, especially those of the royal line, transformed into great eagles and it was not unusual for a band of warriors to make use of the animagus forms of its members.

It was difficult magic but since those abilities had proven life saving many times during the course of veela history, it was given very high priority. After all, who needed to turn a matchstick into a needle when being pursued by an enemy?

"No," Senka allowed, "but how do you know?"

"You're familiar with the Patronus charm?" Fleur said, watching the queen's eyes widen. Dementors hadn't been seen in veela lands for a thousand years or more and so, they had almost no use for the charm. That said, it was useful against several other dark creatures occasionally seen in their lands and, given that the veela had driven the Dementors away, one or two must have been familiar with the spell.

_It all comes down to what's useful in your own situation, doesn't it?_

"Of course. Don't tell me you learned how to summon a corporeal Patronus?"

"I did. It was necessary, Britain has been swarming with Dementors recently."

"I see. Well, that's very impressive. But not unexpected, for a witch of your talents."

Fleur accepted the compliment gracefully and they once again lapsed into silence. Birds called as the quality of light changed with the slow descent of the sun. It was starting to get a bit cold and Fleur wished she'd brought her cloak with her.

She folded her arms over her chest, gazing down again to the spot by the lake where small, indistinct figures milled around brown mounds. For every spot of motion, there was a scatter of still watchers. Smoke rose from a small fire, above which a copper kettle caught the waning sunlight.

"Harry didn't use magic, either," she said, quietly, almost to herself. Senka lifted an eyebrow in gentle inquisition and Fleur sighed. "He buried a house elf beside Shell Cottage. The elf had saved their lives and received a dagger to the heart for his trouble.

Senka said nothing but turned to follow Fleur's gaze. She was silent for a long moment before she spoke. "Most find it unseemly to closely ally death and magic. You know that only the most wretched use magic to kill. This is another facet of that. The graves are dug by hand, the dead are laid out in the same manner.

"It reminds us that we yet live. That despite what we have seen befall those we've lost, that a vital, mysterious spark remains within us. These things can only be seen in contrast; a hazy shadow that must be projected onto a blank wall to be understood. Magic, by its nature, distorts and creates illusions. And if we forget that we die, that despite our wisdom and our tricks we are mortal… It doesn't end well."

Fleur turned to her queen, away from the distant work. "What of your flame?"

The queen shrugged. "It was real, as though struck from flint. If that pyre had been heaped with our people, it would have honoured them."

"But it was not."

Senka lifted silver eyes, sad and much older than Fleur had expected. "It was also very hot. It burned quickly."

Fleur nodded. Part of her wished to, once again, speak freely to her queen. To tell the tale of the battle and the sickening feeling of Fenrir Greyback's blood on her hands. To describe the residual warmth of corpses in a dark dungeon. To recount how she'd fallen in love despite being married. But though they were afforded privacy by virtue of the language they spoke and their isolation, Fleur worried that if she opened her mouth, she would be unable to close it.

"I found a fairy tree beside a river," she said, instead, "and a bough was broken. I took it for her wand. Beneath the roots of the tree lies a family of otters whom I had the privilege of watching play in the sun. Part of me, right now, wishes to learn how to take that form and escape these next few days."

She felt a touch on her shoulder and turned to face Senka. The short witch's face was gentle with sympathy and lit with a rueful, wistful smile.

"Oh, Fleur," she sighed. "You're as adept at finding trouble as ever you have been."

Fleur ducked her face, unable to face that empathy. She felt like a muddy child once again and wished that Senka would berate or scold her. But the queen merely brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a light touch.

"But you're not a child anymore," she sighed. "What a pity, that we must grow up! If only we could be lost in childhood, or its memory, for longer. If only the world allowed it." She sighed. "All that we can do is forge a world for our children. To ensure that their childhood is longer than ours was. I watched you grow from a blithe girl and now I see you bent double with grief. You will stand tall once again, in time, but you will carry the memory of these days forever. Knowing you, however, you'll carry them with ease and grace. With perfect aplomb."

Fleur felt herself frown at the queen's words, the sweet memory of days long passed soothing her for a moment. It was bitter too, though.

"Don't worry," Senka murmured. "Just because you're not a child anymore doesn't mean you have to worry about being an adult."

"I'm a bit beyond my teenage years," she replied, wryly.

"A heartbeat," the queen scoffed. "Just… I understand, Fleur. The things that you've seen, you shouldn't have. It ages you, make you feel positively ancient, but sadly it doesn't make you any wiser. Or anymore _you_."

Fleur turned to her, confused and weary. "No, it certainly doesn't. I promise, I don't feel at all wise right now."

"Good," Senka chirped. "Any wisdom gained so soon after an event such as this would have very flimsy legs." She hopped down from the flower bed and stretched. "I must return to the forest. As always, come and seek me out if you wish."

She stepped onto a narrow path that ran towards the woods and took several steps before she turned.

"I was told that you gained victory against that cur Greyback, with your own hands. Do you understand what that means?"

Fleur's eyes widened and she swallowed thickly. She nodded and clenched her hands into fists, stifling their tremor. Senka regarded her solemnly.

"If the skin of an otter won't prove fearsome, Fleur, wings and talons shall."

* * *

><p>"I know this is an awful thing to say," Harry whispered, "but I'll be glad when this is over."<p>

Hermione agreed wholeheartedly. "After the funeral, Harry. Just one more day. One more night."

"Biggest night," Ron muttered, still exhausted despite a long nap. "I saw Ab rolling casks of whiskey through the corridor."

Harry groaned. Hermione's heart dropped.

"Hermione, I don't suppose you know a spell that will render alcohol… well, without?"

She shook her head. "It never occurred to me that I'd need such a thing."

Ron sighed. "Well, Ginny did show me a decent hangover cure-"

"Ginny?" Hermione gasped, scandalised. Harry had spoken in the same moment, but his voice held a touch of awe.

"Excuse me," a voice called. An ancient wizard shuffled forward, extending his hand to Harry. "Mr Potter, I must thank you."

He was bent with age, his joints swollen and gnarled. He leaned his weight on a staff, his free hand trembling as Harry shook it. Hermione stood, offering her seat, and helped the old man sit. She stretched and looked around, ignoring the conversation that had started. The Hall was busy now, dozens of people milling about in the central isle. It was very warm, too, stuffy and stale.

She told Ron that she was going to go for a quick walk and made her way out, seeking out the quiet and cool passages and secret parts of Hogwarts. The portraits were silent; the ghosts elsewhere. Candles lit the corridors, burning brighter than they normally did.

She wandered for a while, content in her own company. The silence was dense and strange, otherworldly somehow. She spied a tapestry on the wall ahead that hid a passage that she'd often used as a short cut to get to the astronomy tower and was gripped with an impulse to sit beneath the stars for a while, to see if they'd finally decided to share their wisdom.

She ducked behind the tapestry and was plunged into complete darkness. Shaking her wand to life, she carefully picked her way across the uneven floor, careful to not trip over any debris. She neared the end of the passageway and paused, waiting to hear if anyone was outside. She'd once almost broken her ankle after rushing from behind a tapestry and over a very tall boy's leg. She could hear voices close by and listened to see if they were coming or going.

"-avoiding me?" Hermione started. It couldn't be.

"No, for goodness sake," a man's voice, familiar and low. Bill's voice trailed off before fading back in. "-to think about."

Fleur did not appear to have moved and was silent for a long moment. Her voice was muffled, but quite close and Hermione was frozen to the spot, unable to move forwards or backwards. "Thinking about what?"

"Look, I heard you!" Bill snapped, plainly audible to Hermione, evidently closer than Fleur. She clamped her hand over her mouth, urging herself to be silent. To not allow her gasps to betray her presence. Of all the damned silly bloody coincidences! She was about to tiptoe away, to give Bill them the privacy they deserved when she heard Fleur's voice, closer now and clearer.

"Heard me?" Fleur said, sounding thoroughly confused.

"Last night. I heard you talking to her," Bill sighed. Hermione's heart thumped in her chest as her mind raced to a terrifying conclusion. Bill had been in the tower when they'd spoken? But what had he heard? She cast her mind back over their conversation and bit her lip. Those last few words exchanged between them could easily have been misconstrued.

"Oh," Fleur said, not her normal, confident self. "I see."

"And maybe you'd be right to go," he sighed. "To leave." Bill's voice sounded hollow and Hermione's heart broke for him.

"No!" Fleur cried, shock apparent. "No!" she repeated, firmly, speaking rapidly. Her accent thickened, betraying her upset. "Do not be ridiculous. I am not going to leave you, you, silly man!"

Hermione's heart sank and as she listened to clothes rustle, she felt tears fill her eyes.

"You can't go," he said, dolefully. "It's not right, Fleur. I know that things are so bloody hard right now but we _can't_ just abandon it all. You can't walk away from this, just because it's hard!"

Fleur was quiet for a long moment. "Though it might be better in the long run," she said, her voice low.

"Oh no! Oh no you don't!" he scolded. "You're not getting off so easily, Fleur. You made promises, didn't you? And it's not going to be easy but you have to try. I've been a fool so far, Fleur." His voice softened. "I've been blind! I didn't see how hard this was for you. I didn't see how much it was hurting you. But I want to make it better. So please, stay. Stay and let me help."

"Bill…" Fleur spoke softly then, too low for Hermione's disbelieving ears to hear.

"I know. I know. It's going to be an uphill struggle but I don't care anymore. I've seen what the alternative is! I've seen it and I don't want it. I want you to… No, I need you. I need you with me."

Fleur laughed shortly. "Do you? What good have I ever done for you, Bill?"

"You made me happy," he said, sincerely. "You gave me hope. If you leave, I'll stumble on but it won't be the same. And I know, though you're too proud to admit it, that you'll regret it! You'll regret it for the rest of your life."

There was a long, pregnant silence and Hermione found herself holding her breath, heart pounding in her chest at what was to come next.

"Bill," Fleur sighed. "Did you really think I'd leave? Honestly?"

Bill let out a long, loud breath of relief. "Well, no. But… Well, I was a bit worried there."

Hermione was trembling, tears rolling over her cheeks. It was strange to realise that one could still hold onto hope, even in the face of incredible adversity. She hadn't realised that despite her rationalisation, there'd still been a spark within her that had been waiting for that moment when she could go to Fleur and open her heart to her. What a fool she'd been! How could she have ever for a moment thought that Fleur would give up her life with Bill?

"I'm still worried," Fleur sighed. "Hermione…"

"Will understand," Bill said, softly. "She's a bright girl. She'll understand."

Fleur laughed, though it was choked. "Will she? Bill…" the rest of Fleur's words were too low for Hermione to hear and her hands weren't steady enough to attempt any kind of spell to amplify her voice.

"It's the funny thing," Bill said, softly but clearly, "about love. When it seems like it's broken or hopeless, you realise that you can't break it. That it won't abandon you to despair. You just have to plough on, do your best."

They were quiet for a long moment before Fleur drew a sobbing breath. "Je t'aime, Bill."

"Love you too."

* * *

><p>Hermione stumbled from the tapestry, tripping on her robes and barely catching herself from falling headfirst into the opposite wall. She was gasping for air, tears blurring her vision so badly that she found it difficult to stand up. She leaned against the wall and wrapped her arms around herself, drawing huge, sobbing breaths.<p>

What a stupid, silly, inane little girl she'd been! To have thought that she was special to Fleur. Whatever had been special about her was probably nothing more than the novelty of her! Her chest ached and she drew a handkerchief from her pockets, sobbing into it.

Her mind was in tatters, the library a pile of rubble. She scrambled around, searching for clues that could explain what she'd heard, that could rationalise it all. That would make sense of it all. But the answer was plain before her. Fleur loved Bill and was married to him. She'd slept with Hermione to confer protection upon her and while she was fond of her, would not be leaving her husband any time soon.

It was too much! It was more than she could comprehend. Or rather, it was something that could comprehend but not accept.

_But she said she loved me…_

She'd been a fool to believe it.

She was ripped from her pit of misery by a rough, cruel grip.

"You little _bitch_!"

She blinked, disorientated and completely taken aback. Rita Skeeter has grabbed her by the arm, pulling her close to her seething face. She was purple with rage, her teeth bared in an awful snarl.

"You nasty little _meddling_ cow!" she hissed. "Undo it right now or I will ruin you!"

Hermione could do nothing more than gape, her mind completely blank. Pain registered as lime green talons sank into the flesh of her arm and she jerked her arm, attempting to free it.

"Let me go!"

"Not until you get rid of it, you spiteful little trollop!"

"Get rid of what?" Hermione demanded, pulling herself together somewhat. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She reached for her wand but froze when Skeeter shoved the tip of her own into the limited space between them.

"I'll cast the imperius curse on you! I'll _make_ you!"

"You'll do no such thing!"

Both witches froze, Hermione's heart beating faster than it ever had done before. She saw Harry standing with his wand raised and a very cold expression on his face.

"Get out of here," he said. "Let go of Hermione and leave."

Skeeter was still, well-aware that the scrawny young man before her had recently killed the Dark Lord with nothing more than a simple disarming jinx. Hatred boiled in her eyes but she was not a courageous woman. She released her bruising grip on Hermione's arm and took a step back, her eyes fixed on her.

"I'll ruin you," she swore, "I'll drag your name through so much mud that they'll rename the plough. I'll have everyone in this country believe every horrible little rumour about you."

"Shut up!" Harry called.

Skeeter was undeterred, fixing Hermione with a cold and pitiless gaze; hatred and anger boiling there. "You're the most conniving little bitch I've ever met. You're a miserable, sneaky little shit who thinks she's better than everyone else. Mark my words," she vowed, "I'll expose you for the heartless, miserable, loathsome little mudblood-"

"_Enough_!"

"I will," Skeeter roared, "find your muggle parents and show the whole world what you did to them!"

With that, Harry had clearly had enough and marched forward, shoving Skeeter aside and grabbing Hermione. After all of two steps, she felt a nauseating weakness in her legs and sped forward, dragging Harry after her. She threw them into the first classroom she could find and locked the door.

_What just happened?_

Her heart was pounding in her ears. Her stomach was sitting in her mouth and her heart was screaming at her. She was dimly aware of Harry coming to her side and she met his bright green eyes, seeing confusion clearly written.

"Hermione, what the bloody hell was that about?"

She closed her eyes, feeling as though she was torn apart. She felt something bubbling in her chest and realised that she wanted nothing more than to scream. She was trembling and sweating, cold and tingling.

When she spoke, it was without fore thought. She surprised herself but knew that it was the only possible course of action available to her.

"Harry, as soon as the funeral's over, I need to go to Australia."

* * *

><p>Please don't kill me. If you kill me, you won't find out what happens next.<p> 


	15. No Transcendental Leap

Dear Reader,

Well, despite best efforts, I managed to survive the last couple of weeks and even write another chapter! Homicide would have been justified. Thank you to everyone who's still following this story. Please stick with it, we're nearing the home stretch.

As always, comments, criticisms, slings, arrows and cupcakes are all appreciated. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, his gaze fixed on the staircase that led to the girls' dormitories. Despite the fact that the enchantment preventing members of his sex from trespassing had been lifted, he had no intention of ascending those steps. He sighed and pulled his glasses from his face, wiping them with the hem of his robe.<p>

_What the bloody hell got into that Skeeter woman?_

He'd been utterly shocked when Hermione had revealed her plans; completely surprised and quite taken aback by the vehemence in her tone. Her eyes had been bright against her flushed skin, desperate and terrified. He'd seen her panic before, their lives had never been quiet, but never had he seen her in such a frantic state.

"You coming back down?" a voice asked from behind him. He turned and felt a smile stretch his face at the sight of Ginny leaning against the portrait hole.

"Yeah," he said as she crossed the floor of the deserted common room, "just waiting on Hermione."

Ginny frowned as she caught his elbow with a casual hand. "Is she all right? She fell asleep on Luna's lap earlier."

Harry blinked at the information. That wasn't like Hermione at all. He frowned and leaned against Ginny, resting his head on hers. "I don't know. I thought she slept last night."

"Well, she went to bed but that doesn't mean anything," Ginny sighed. "I asked Luna and she said she had nightmares in Shell Cottage."

Harry nodded in an absent minded manner. "Yeah… She always looked tired. Never complained, though." Ginny reached a hand up and ran her fingers through his hair, gentle as they stood together.

"You know," he chuckled, "I'm glad you're not wearing high heels."

Ginny's hand paused for a moment and she drew her head back to peer at him. "Yeah… 's not my fault you're a short arse."

He laughed, the frivolity of their conversation welcome after such dark times. It was one of the things he loved about Ginny. She was always gentle with him but she called a spade a spade and let him get away with nothing.

And, crucially, she wasn't _actually_ taller than him. He definitely had half an inch on her.

"But does she always have bad dreams?" Ginny asked, apparently unwilling to leave the subject of their friend. "Parvati told me she always used to wander around at all times of the day and night."

Harry shrugged. "I never heard anything in the tent but you know how good she is with charms now. I wouldn't have heard her unless she wanted me to."

Ginny was quiet for a long moment before drawing a steadying breath. Harry's stomach clenched and he got the very clear impression that he wasn't going to like the following question.

"What happened in Malfoy Manor? I've heard bits and pieces but what happened to her? She seems so _different_, Harry. She used to tell me everything and now I can't get two words out of her!"

Harry was surprised, though he shouldn't have been, at the anguish in Ginny's voice. He'd always been slightly wary of the close relationship they shared because he was well-aware that girls tended to talk about _everything_ and he wasn't keen on his best friend and girl friend discussing him. Imagine all the things that Hermione could tell Ginny that would make him look like even more of a prat than he managed by himself!

Ginny lifted a curious eyebrow and he sighed, shrugging as best he could. "I honestly don't know. I…" he swallowed, remembering those dreadful screams. How they had gone on for so long and how, when he'd seen her, he'd thought for an awful moment that she was dead. He slid an arm around Ginny's waist and let her warmth soothe him. "I don't know, exactly. Bellatrix tortured her. But I don't know anything else…" He closed his eyes against the flush of shame that filled him. "I never asked. She seemed OK so I just… we just got on with it. Planning the raid and all."

Ginny sighed, a tiny hint of exasperation in her tone. "I don't mean that, what about afterwards? How was she at the cottage?"

Harry grimaced. "Uh… Well, she was tired but we were planning. I thought it was just that."

In truth, his mind had been so full of other things, Horcruxes and Hallows, that he hadn't been able to think of much else at all. Least of all his closest friend. The shame that had bubbled up earlier rose in his throat and he felt like an utter pillock. Looking back, Hermione hadn't been herself. She hadn't argued about every detail of the plan or taken charge. He'd been relieved at the time and thought she'd finally decided to let him do what was best. But he wondered now if she hadn't spoken because something had been wrong.

She hadn't been fine at all, he realised. She'd been quiet and withdrawn, joyless and meek. She hadn't even taken a book from the parlour shelves during their first week there and it had been more than half way through their stay when she asked about his mother's diaries. At that stage, the initial thrill of discovery had faded as confusion about the magical theory discussed set in. He'd been glad for her input and the fact that she'd seemed a bit more like herself.

Ginny tugged at a lock of his hair. "What about this evening? What happened?"

"Oh, Rita bloody Skeeter happened this evening." He frowned again. "She was crazed, Gin. Had her wand in Hermione's face and everything."

"Merlin's beard!" Ginny hissed, "that old wagon! What on earth was all that in aid of?"

"She wanted me to undo something," a weary voice said from the foot of the stair case. "A spell, I presume. The trouble is, I have no idea what she's talking about."

Hermione had washed her face and tidied her hair but she still looked dreadful. She was hunched over, arms wrapped around her waist. Her dark eyes were wide but missing their usual spark and Harry's chest clenched at the sight. It was that night on the couch all over again.

Ginny stepped away from him and gathered Hermione in a firm embrace, smoothing her hair. Hermione's arms wrapped around her and Harry was struck by the thought that she looked so _small_ compared to Ginny. While they were more or less the same height, Ginny was toned from quidditch and whatever she'd been up to with Dumbledore's Army. Hermione, on the other hand, looked skinny and worn out. Lost and lonesome.

He stepped forward, a sense of urgency gripping him. "Hermione, when you head off, I'll go with you," he stated, firmly. Both girls turned incredulous faces to him and Ginny flushed with anger.

"If you think you're heading off on another bloody quest-"

"No," Hermione sighed. "Harry, I need to do this on my own. Besides, if you come with me, every wizard in the world will know what's going on." She released Ginny and stepped away, rubbing her forehead tiredly. "And I really don't think that having you come along while I try and get my parents back will help matters."

Harry couldn't argue with that but was far from happy. "I don't think you should go alone."

"I'll be fine," she said, in a tone of voice that allowed no room for disagreement. "I need to get there before Skeeter or someone equally odious."

"Take Ron," he suggested.

Ginny snorted and Hermione's face twitched slightly. "On a trip through the muggle world? I don't think that would be a good idea, somehow."

"Well," Harry desperately cast his mind around for someone else, "what about Dean? Or Seamus?"

"Harry…" Hermione sounded tired but annoyed. He frowned, knowing how stubborn his friend could be. He needed to think of something fast. The thought of her vanishing off into the muggle world terrified him. She was the only one who'd stayed with him through it all and he wouldn't be able to bear it if she survived the war only to be knocked down by a bus.

"What about me?" Ginny said, casting an apologetic glance at Harry.

"No," Hermione said, reaching out and clasping her elbow with a grateful smile. "You need to keep him from growing an enormous ego in the next few weeks."

"Luna?" Ginny suggested.

"Neville?" Harry added, though he acknowledged that he was clutching at straws.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I am more than capable of-"

Inspiration struck and he spoke without thought.

"Fleur?"

He watched Hermione's face crumple; colour draining as she shot him an incredulous glance. Her hand on Ginny's arm tightened and she wavered on her feet.

"Not my first choice," Ginny mused, "but she seems much more tolerable now. You obviously had a good influence on her."

Harry had never thought that Hermione was the sort of person to do something as ridiculous as faint unless she'd lost a good quantity of blood or been attacked by something nasty. But she looked as though she was about to change his mind. She sat heavily in an overstuffed arm chair and pressed a trembling hand to her chest.

Ginny's pale eyebrows were high and she shot him an incredulous glance. He shrugged and approached his friend, kneeling in front of her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, trying to see her expression. She shook her head and buried her face in her hands.

"I need to get to sleep," she said, tonelessly. She lifted her head, eyes dull and listless. "I'm sorry, it's just all catching up with me. I don't think there's much point in me heading back down there."

"That's fine," Ginny cooed, reaching out to her friend. "Come on. You've had a long few days."

Hermione mumbled a good night and headed for the dormitory, shoulders hunched and pace slow. Ginny followed her and Harry watched them go, feeling stupid and useless. Some quiet part of his heart knew that something was dreadfully wrong with Hermione. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, desperately wishing that everything could hurry up and go back to normal. Or at least what passed for normal in his life.

A jagged pain lanced through his chest as he thought of Hermione's sad eyes. He knew that she was suffering but he had no idea what he could do to comfort her. He had no idea how to help her.

He clenched his fist. Weren't they owed some peace? Weren't they allowed to be _happy_ after all they'd gone through?

Harry was jolted from his thoughts by an impatient cough. He turned and was surprised to see Kreacher standing with another elf, one even skinnier than his compatriots tended to be. His eyes were enormous and he trembled as he fussed over something gripped in his gnarled hands.

"Master Potter," Kreacher wheezed, sketching a small bow. "Scaldie of Hogwarts wishes to speak to you."

Harry nodded mildly, almost amused at the change in Kreacher's attitude. Hermione had been right, he saw, to treat him well. If he, or Sirius for that matter, had treated the servant more kindly, who knows how things would have turned out? Perhaps Sirius would still be alive. Perhaps Tonks wouldn't have felt the need to join the battle if Remus' old friend was there to watch his back. He swallowed and nodded, almost flinching as those thoughts entered his mind.

"Good evening, Harry Potter," Scaldie squeaked. "I am pleased to meet you, after so long."

Harry nodded and the elf stepped forward, trembling slightly. "I'm sorry to take up your time," he said in a strange, piping voice. "I was told to sort the rubble from the Great Hall, to return lost property."

Harry felt himself frowning. "I don't think I lost anything."

"No!" Scaldie whimpered, "not _you_. This is from one of the _veela_!" he hissed. There was fear in his voice and Harry had to bite the inside of his lip to prevent himself from smiling. House elves and veela?

"Well, who was it?" he asked. As far he knew, both Fleur and her mother had been in the Great Hall.

"It was a _veela_," Kreacher huffed, "and she wore _muggle_ clothes!"

Harry nodded. Fleur had been wearing a leather jacket over jeans, as far as he could remember. "Do you mean Fleur? She isn't a veela. She's quarter veela."

Scaldie shook his head violently. "Quarter? There's no such thing. It's all or nothing, with them."

Somewhat confused, and very weary, Harry nodded. He was in no mood to listen to the ranting of house elves. "What do you have? I'll make sure she gets it."

Scaldie scampered forwards and drew a towel from a bag slung around his neck. Gingerly, as though it might contain something explosive, he laid the towel on the ground before him and scuttled away. Harry frowned and drew his wand, opening the bundle and finding, to his bemusement, a small pale stone.

"What is it?" he asked, eyes flicking to Kreacher.

"A moonstone," he grumbled. "One owned by the filthy veela."

Harry stooped down and inspected the stone. It was set in a loop of silver which was twisted in one part. The turned it over with a flick of his wand and saw nothing remarkable.

"How do you know it belongs to Fleur?" he asked. Kreacher heaved an indignant sigh, as though Harry had just uttered a grievous insult.

"House elves _know_ such things."

"All right," Harry said, in no mood to argue with the mercurial elf, "what's wrong with it? Why did you wrap it up."

Scaldie blinked, as though Harry had spoken to him in Dutch. "Wrong? It belongs to one of _them_!"

"But what else?" Harry sighed. "It is enchanted? Dangerous? Another bloody Horcrux?"

Kreacher frowned. "It is none of those things, or anything else. But it is _hers_. We will not bring it to her."

Harry rolled his eyes and scooped the towel up. Just to be safe, he'd ask Hermione to have a quick look before he gave it to Fleur. The two elves, relieved of their burden, seemed happy to slink out of sight. Harry stood in the Gryffindor common room, weary and irritated.

_And here I thought it'd get easier after defeating Voldemort._

* * *

><p>Ron sat with his arms around his knees, watching Charlie stoop and haul Bill out of the grave. His eldest brother was dirty and tired, the awful scars on his face standing out in the flickering light of the torches that burned beside the graves. Dumbledore's tomb shone white, as if lit from within and not reliant on the light reflected from the multitude of guttering, smoking sources.<p>

Bill sat heavily beside him, wiping the back of his sleeve across his forehead. Lee leaned over with a bottle of beer and Bill took it gratefully.

Ron had met Bill up in the castle an hour previous, heading for the kitchen with a growling stomach. He'd been quiet and seemed upset but then, who wasn't? He'd asked for a basket of sandwiches to bring to the lake and Ron had reluctantly followed. He'd absolutely no desire to see Fred's grave but had made his way down anyway, a crate of beer clutched in his arms.

Bill hadn't said much yet but he had a far away look in his eye, as though he was planning something. Ron hadn't seen it for a long time, not since they were children. It cheered him to see it because it at least approached normal; something familiar. Ron presumed he was in for a grilling over the last year at some stage and as much as he dreaded it, the idea that he could finally get everything off his chest was an enormous relief.

After all, Bill was a decent bloke. He hadn't even given him guff at Christmas.

Charlie sitting heavily beside Ron shook him from his musing and he took a sip of beer. People used to call him the Weasley with the scars. Now there were a few of them to choose from, Ron thought sadly.

He looked at the dark void in the ground before him and the tall mound beside it. A crooked old man had told them what to do earlier, according to Charlie. How to correctly dig a grave. They were planning on covering the mound with some of the many bouquets of flowers that had been sent to Fred, disguising the bare earth and the hungry hole beside it.

"That should do us," Bill said, taking a long drink. "At least if there's no more collapses."

"Want to head back up?" Charlie asked, around a mouthful of sandwich.

Bill closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck to one side as though chasing away some pain. When he opened his eyes, they held no hint of his plans. He nodded slowly, slumping slightly.

"Yeah. But let's enjoy the fresh air for a bit, eh?"

The torches snapped and low sounds travelled from other graves. A shovel slithered over a stone and someone grunted as they emptied a bucket. Someone laughed hoarsely and someone cursed. Hagrid's footsteps echoed over the lake and a copper kettle whistled over a central fire.

"Fred would've been here, if it had been any of us," Ron said, not knowing why he felt the need to voice that thought. Charlie laid a heavy arm over his shoulder and chuckled.

"Yeah. Yeah, he would have. Here's to Freddy."

"To Fred," Bill and Ron chorused, knocking their bottles together in the cool summer night.

* * *

><p>Neville found himself holding Teddy again, the little baby sleeping soundly on his chest, snuffling quietly. His hair was a bright shade of lime green, which Neville thought was a bit garish for the occasion. He'd barely been able to look at Lupin and Tonks in their coffins but had taken their son whenever Madame Tonks felt she needed a rest.<p>

Several older wizards were clustered between Lupin and Snape, talking quietly as they drank glasses of fire whiskey. Most of the Weasleys were gathered around Fred, a gaggle of red hair and sad laughter.

Teddy shuddered in his sleep and Neville bounced him in his arms a bit. "Sleep on, Teds," he whispered, "no need to be awake."

"It's sad," Luna said, appearing from thin air as though through apparition. "Even if he was awake, he won't remember when he gets older." She took a seat beside him, smoothing Teddy's hair gently.

"We can tell him," Neville said, softly. "I know Harry's his god father but we all knew Lupin and Tonks. We can tell him what they were like. How Lupin never raised his voice for no reason."

"Or how Tonks walked into a pond that time."

Neville chuckled. "Yeah. All them times. Good times."

Luna hummed. "Daddy never told me about my mother. He couldn't bear to speak about her, after the accident. And there weren't too many others that knew her well. She grew up in Ireland, you see. In fact, I was born there, though I don't remember."

Neville took that in, nodding as he rubbed Teddy's back. "Gran spoke about them all the time. Took me to see them every week. I was eight before I thought it was strange. To not have your mum and dad at home."

Luna lifted her small hand and rubbed his back affectionately. "Did you miss them, coming here?"

"I did," Neville said, "but I was relieved too. I mean…"

"I know," Luna said. "Where are they now?"

"A place on Lake Como. Gran had them moved just in case. It's nice there, I went last summer. They can go outside, enjoy the weather." He swallowed. "Would it be awful of me to leave them there? I'd still visit but…" He hadn't voiced these thoughts to _anybody_ but Luna was Luna. She'd listen and never judge him poorly for his cowardice.

"I think that sounds much nicer than St Mungo's. Imagine the flowers. It would be hard for you, Neville. They don't know where they are, after all."

"I'm worried… I don't want it to seem like I'm abandoning them."

Because he would be. He'd see them once every couple of months at most. He didn't know if they'd even miss him but doubt played in his heart. Surely they'd know? Underneath it all, even though they never remembered him, they seemed happy when he visited. What right had he to take that from them?

Luna sighed, still rubbing his back. "I'd much rather be able to see the sun and stars, even if I didn't know what they were. People might say nasty things Neville but I know you. You wouldn't make a selfish choice. So do what you think is best and never mind what people say.

Teddy whimpered in his arms, squirming unhappily for a moment, his face red as he woke. Luna dipped her head and clucked her tongue.

"I presume Mrs Tonks left you spare nappies?"

Neville smiled at Luna and peered down at Teddy, who was scowling up at him, deciding whether or not to cry.

"Come on, lad," he said, standing wearily. "Off to the lav."

He lifted the changing bag left beside his seat and turned to Luna. She was standing too, gently moving an errant strand of hair from Tonks' forehead. Her grey eyes were bright with tears but her gaze didn't waver.

She drew a breath and glanced at Neville. "I'll hold the fort."

Neville nodded. "Thanks, Luna," he said, meaning it with every part of his heart. Whatever any said about Luna Lovegood, there was no better person to go to when you needed to talk.

She smiled and nodded. "You're welcome."

He knew by the sad glint in her eye that she'd understood the totality of his gratitude and he turned, striding out of the Great Hall as Teddy began to cry.

* * *

><p>Thousands had gathered. Harry blinked and felt Hermione tighten her grip on his arm as they found themselves ushered to the very heart of the crowd. They passed coffins resting over open graves, flowers covering the heaps of brown soil beside them. The scent of the earth was almost lost beneath that of the flowers but every so often, the delicate perfume would fade. The earth was rich here, a loamy, brown soil very different from the pale sand he'd moved for Dobby's sake. It held life in it; quiet life beneath ancient trees. He remembered long afternoons spent in corners of the Dursley's garden, alone with a bucket and trowel, and wondered suddenly if there was a garden at Number 12.<p>

Hermione slowed and he blinked, setting his musing aside for later. He was tired after long nights spent listening to stories, songs and bitter tears but he knew the end was in sight. Soon, they could rest. He and Hermione stood beside Lupin and Tonks' grave, Andromeda smiling gratefully at them. Teddy was asleep in her arms, his hair a quieter shade of blue than normal. Did he understand, Harry wondered, that this was a sad time? He was only a couple of weeks old but had the grief around them managed to permeate even his heart?

His own heart ached at the thought and he vowed, for what seemed like the tenth time, that Teddy would have a happy life. That he'd never know this sorrow. That he'd never be tempted to sit before the Mirror, entranced by what he could never have. Hermione leaned against him and he took a breath, drawing comfort from her familiar shampoo. He glanced around, seeing Ginny standing with her mother, clasping her hand as she wept into a hanky. George stood between Percy and Charlie, lost and desolate. He kept his eyes away from the sealed coffin beside him, gazing out over the lake instead.

Harry looked towards the castle, at the great slope that led to the grey walls. Thousands of people stood, the hundreds of chairs filled hours before, quiet as they waited for the ceremony to begin. The students of Hogwarts were closest, dark robes lit with occasional colour. The teachers sat with them, Hagrid's massive frame accompanied by Madame Maxime's. There were ministry officials and shop owners, people from near and far. Harry wondered if there was a single person left in Diagon Ally or Hogsmeade.

The final few stragglers arrived, shuffling into place around their loved ones or joining the edges of the great crowd. Neville, Luna and many other members of the DA stood behind them, keeping a respectful distance but standing behind their teacher. Few spoke but many wept, muffling their grief with handkerchiefs and sleeves. Ron noisily blew his nose, pale eyes streaming as he stood with his father.

Quietly, with great respect, the Yeoman Bedel made his way to a small lectern before Dumbledore's gleaming tomb, followed by two assistants. He wore robes of sooty black, long and handsomely cut. He came to a stop and turned, looking at each and every grave with its attendant mourners. His ancient face was folded with sorrow, attuned to the grief of the occasion.

The merfolk had sung for Dumbledore and they paid his students the same honour, their strange voices carrying over the crowd, mingling with the warm summer wind's birdsong. Why was it, he wondered, that such tragic events happened on the nicest days? He longed to hold Ginny, to bury his face in her neck and squeeze his eyes shut against the world but then who would stand with Lupin? Why were there so _many_ to say good-bye to? Didn't each and every person deserve their own farewell?

Hermione sniffled beside him and he sighed, resting his head against hers. He couldn't bear the thought of her leaving. He wrapped an arm around her waist and she leaned into him, each desperate for comfort.

"It seems like months have passed since last I spoke," the Yeoman Bedel said, his voice amplified but not booming. A whisper close the the ear. The merfolk's song trailed off and all faces turned to him.

"But it has been days. Days in which we remembered. Days in which we mourned. Days in which we shared our memories of lives cut tragically short. Days in which to say good bye.

"None of us can ever know what lies beyond this life," he said, casting a glance at the ghosts, hanging like spider webs in the morning sun. "Even if we have almost left it. There are those who view death as an enemy, something to be resisted at all cost. But death comes to us all and I do not feel within my heart that it is an evil. We are born and during our time, we live as best we can. Our time is short, compared to the vast ages of the world, but great things may be accomplished.

"We can bring joy to many. Those we lay to rest today brought joy to our lives. Though their time was brief, and some more so than others, this world is better for having had them in it. I knew few of them and none well. But there are those here who knew and loved them and I call upon them now, to come and speak."

And so, mourners from every grave stood and spoke. They were brief; what else was left to say that had not been said in the days gone by? Denis Creevey spoke of his brother while their muggle parents looked on with dazed expressions. They'd been afforded a special honour but Harry doubted they cared about that. Slughorn spoke for Snape, a gentle entreaty that people take the time to listen to the full story of his life and death before judging him harshly.

They spoke for hours. Tears and laughter, silence and sorrow flowed after their words, entwined with the memories they shared. They faced this new world, this phoenix world, with the knowledge that their sacrifice had allowed it to exist. That their loved ones hadn't died in vain.

And Harry gripped Hermione's waist and felt tears build because he knew it was a lie. They shouldn't have died. If he'd been faster or more clever, he would have been in and out of Hogwarts without Voldemort knowing. If he'd been a better man, he would have faced Voldemort earlier. Those that lay waiting to be lowered into the dark earth did so because of him. His throat tightened and he was utterly relieved that McGonagall had offered to speak for Lupin.

What could he say? What words could he, who'd brought this down upon them all, offer to comfort them?

Hermione shifted in his grip and looked up at him. She looked so _old_. She looked so sad. She reached up and wiped a tear from his face, her own eyes shining.

"It's not your fault, Harry," she whispered.

"If I hadn't come back…"

"He would have claimed the diadem and probably have made more," she said, firmly. "They'd be alive, but for how long? Or who else would have died in their place?"

"It's just so wrong," he said, defeated.

"I know."

The last of the mourners finished and as a group, they returned to their loved ones. The Yeoman Bedel stood and drew a breath.

"Albus Dumbledore rests behind me. He is the first head master to lie in the grounds of Hogwarts and before us are the first students. But it is fitting. Our world is built here. The things we learn, the friendships we nurture, the mistakes we make. We all hold memories of Hogwarts to our hearts and it is absolutely fitting that the darkness that enveloped our world was defeated here. Let us never forget how those before me stood and fought. Their great sacrifice."

He spoke on and as hard as Harry tried to listen, his heart was too sore to pay attention. He gazed across the crowd, searching for faces he knew. Hagrid's great beard was matted down with tears. Ron was holding his mum's hand. Ginny was tucked under Bill's broad arm, her eyes closed. His eye caught Fleur's and to his surprise, she smiled softly at him. There was something wistful about her, something sad and lonely as she met his gaze.

"Let us remember them always," the Yeoman Bedel intoned. "Let their sacrifice not be wasted. Let us keep them alive with the love in our hearts."

It was nothing but words, Harry thought, miserable. Words that people strung together to make sense out of insanity. To comprehend the violent hatred that had ripped the order of their lives apart.

Voices lifted in song and Harry presumed the merfolk had decided to continue their tribute but he quickly realised that the song came from the forest. When last he'd stood here, the centaurs had milled beneath the edge of the trees, waiting to pay their respects. They had returned, bows in hand once more, but further down the tree line stood the veela tribe. They were far away but Harry was sure he could distinguish Vega from the others.

They sang, an enchanting and haunting song in a language he couldn't understand. But he was soothed. Somehow, the spell they wove deadened the pain, allowing him room for breath once more. It acknowledged the sorrow around them. It spoke of the gaps left in the lives of those left behind. It spoke of lives cut short and families destroyed.

But as it spoke of these things, it also showed the corner of hope. It showed the lives before them and the love still around them. It took the sorrow and embracing it, chased it from their hearts. It spoke of secrets long forgotten and answers to questions that sooner or later, everyone asked. It explained what had happened and why it had needed to.

It made things better. It helped.

As their voices faded, Harry opened his eyes. The balm placed on his soul lifted quickly but left behind a faint residue. He knew then that someday, eventually, it would be all right again. That the world would heal.

Arrows flew through the air as they took the beams supporting the coffins away. Gently, they lowered the gleaming, polished caskets into the ground. There was so much left to say but Harry couldn't find the words, not even in the silence of his heart.

All around him, the hollow sound on earth hitting wood echoed in the May sunshine and he lifted his face, feeling tears streaming from his eyes.

The Boy who Lived, standing with all those who had not.

* * *

><p>There was food afterwards as well as countless mugs of tea, bottles of beer and glasses of fire whiskey. The dead were toasted and though some had left, too exhausted to remain, it seemed that the majority had stayed. It was noisy, as though the absence of the dead had opened the flood gates within them. The whispers of the previous days could not contain the heart ache and guilty relief bursting forth.<p>

Harry sipped a mug of tea, wondering how quickly he could escape. The hall was heaving with people, a din rising that seemed completely incongruous with the solemn event that that occurred mere hours before. Hermione had gone to speak with Parvati, who was pale and miserable. Ron had joined him, shaky as he explained that his father had taken a shovel to fill Fred's grave.

He'd said it was the last thing he could do for his boy.

Bill, Charlie and Ginny had stayed while he himself, George and Percy took their mother to the Hall.

"Were many people doing that?"

"Yeah," Ron sighed. "Hagrid was helping some of the others, so I doubt it'll take long."

Harry sighed and took another sip of tea.

Ron fidgeted beside him and Harry waited for him to speak, knowing that his friend had something on his mind.

"You seen Hermione?"

"She's with Parvati," he said, gently. "Give them a minute, yeah?"

Ron grunted. "Is it true?" he asked, voice low. "Is she going to find her parents?"

"Yeah," Harry sighed. "I've asked Professor McGonagall if she can help get a portkey to London. She'll have to use the trains to get to France. The entire floo network is in tatters," he said. It wasn't going to be simple for Hermione to get to Australia, not with their world in such disorder.

"She's leaving us," Ron said, pain in his watery eyes. "It's not bloody fair. I… I wanted to talk to her."

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes and set his cup down. He clasped Ron's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Listen, if this was your mum and dad, wouldn't you go? Wouldn't you do anything to be there?"

Ron pressed his lips together. Harry shook his head. "Look, I know what you want to say to her. Well, it can keep, can't it? You're still going to feel the same way when she gets back, right?"

"What if she meets someone else?" Ron asked, urgency in his voice.

Harry bit the inside of his lip. Ron was being slightly presumptuous, he thought. After all, handsome Australian or none, Hermione might not feel the same way she used to. He merely shook his head.

"Don't worry about that. Just, just wish her well. It'd mean a lot to her."

Ron nodded, frowning. "Ginny said Skeeter was annoying her, that's why she's going."

"Yeah," he sighed, before being jostled as a couple of wizards stumbled past. "But I have an idea about that."

Ron lifted an eyebrow but Harry shook his head. "I'll tell you later. It involves doing something I really, _really_ don't want to and if I talk about it, I'm afraid I'll chicken out."

Ron frowned and nodded, taking Harry's request at face value. He heard his voice called and he stood up straight, stretching as he prepared for another night spent hearing the stories of the fallen.

* * *

><p>It was past midnight by the time McGonagall told him she'd been able to arrange a portkey to London. She warned him that such things were in short supply and that if he intended on using it, he'd need to hurry. He was eternally grateful that she hadn't had more questions and hurried off to find Hermione. She was sitting with Ron, Ginny, Luna and Neville in a quiet corner, talking amongst themselves.<p>

He sat beside her and when she turned inquisitive eyes his way, he nodded. She embraced him briefly and turned to Luna and Neville, quickly explaining that she was going away but would be back shortly. Both appeared as if they wanted to know more but kept their peace, nodding as she hugged them. Ginny wished her well and Ron held her somewhat awkwardly, patting her back with clumsy hands.

It struck Harry then how much he was going to miss her. She'd been his constant companion and was his best friend. She'd helped him during his many trials and tribulations and here he was, letting her go alone.

She hurried from the Hall and he followed her, the bob of her messy hair above dark robes familiar and comforting. It was almost as though they were back in school. But Hermione wasn't wearing her school robes and she wasn't the buck toothed little girl he'd met on the Hogwarts Express.

He longed to go with her, not only to help her but to avoid the maelstrom that was likely to erupt once the funeral was over. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk to him. All he wanted to do was to curl up in a quiet room and sleep for about a week. He felt drained but seeing the pallor of his friend's hand and the sharp definition of her face, he realised that he wasn't the only one running on empty.

They reached the Common Room and Hermione turned to him, apparently a bit surprised he'd followed her. She smiled at him, though.

"Are you sure you don't want me to go?"

"I'm sure," she sighed. "You know it's a bad idea. Why don't you just stay in Grimmauld Place and relax? Or visit Teddy? I'll be back soon, anyway."

He sat on the arm of a scarlet chair, chewing on the inside of his lip. "I haven't been a good friend, for a while."

She smiled weakly and seat opposite him, running a hand through her hair. "You were busy saving the world. And I was hardly all rainbows and sunbeams either."

"I suppose…" He sighed. "When you come back, you know you're welcome to move into Grimmauld Place, don't you?"

She blinked, surprised for half a moment before she nodded. "I doubt I'll be staying with mum and dad. Will you take Crookshanks?"

He nodded. "He and Kreacher can get rid of the rats ahead of your arrival." He blinked. "Oh, speaking of Kreacher," he said, drawing the towel from his pocket, "he gave me this."

He unfolded the soft cotton and showed Hermione the stone. Her eyes widened and a muscle jumped on her cheek as she clenched her jaw.

"This belongs to Fleur," she said, quietly. She reached out and without hesitation lifted the stone, gazing as it shimmered in the candle light. Harry was amazed to see tears welling in her dark eyes and leaned forward. He called her name but she didn't answer, eyes glassy and far away.

Her called her name again, worried that the stone really _was_ enchanted. She jumped, clutching the stone to her chest. "Is that thing enchanted?"

"No," she sighed, "it's just a piece of jewellery. Sorry," she said, quirking the corner of her mouth. "I'm just… I have to go, Harry."

Harry nodded as she stood, still gazing at the stone. There was an expression in her eyes that Harry had never seen before. Something gentle and tender, something softer than her usual expression. Something for Fleur.

And why wouldn't there be, he mused. After all, Fleur had been there for her after she'd been tortured while he'd sat around, obsessed with their quest and making harsher and harsher demands of her. He'd made her into Bellatrix, for goodness sake! Guilt filled him, more horrible than before because this was _Hermione_. This was his best friend and someone he loved dearly. Someone he loved more than almost anyone else.

A memory came to mind of the day they'd played football. He'd been leading an attack, tangling with Dean and Ron, when he'd broken free, pelting down the beach to the tune of their swearing behind him. He'd booted the ball into an unguarded goal and thrown his fist up, hooting with delight. His eyes had landed on Fleur and Hermione, laughing together as the taller witch held her around the waist. They'd laughed and there had been something light about Hermione, as if she'd reclaimed a piece of her heart with Fleur's playful antics.

It should have been him. After all she'd done for him, he should have looked after his friend, not left the task for someone else. So he stood and embraced Hermione in the Common Room, searching his heart for a way to apologise.

She rubbed his back and took a breath. "It's all right," she murmured and his chest clenched. "It'll be all right, Harry."

They stood like that for a long while before Harry pulled back, somewhat embarrassed.

"I've not been a good friend until now, but I'll try better. Right?"

She smiled then, a proper smile and he felt the vice around his heart loosen. "I've not been the best either. We'll both do better."

"Yeah," he said, and for the first time since he'd defeated Voldemort, he honestly believed that things would get better.

* * *

><p>Hermione folded the last of her clothes with a casual flick of her wand, sending them into her beaded bag with a gentle swish. She was exhausted and aching, eyes gritty from the few hours of broken sleep she'd had after collapsing the evening before.<p>

A quiet knock sounded at the door and she called a welcome, fussing with her bedspread. She supposed Ginny or Luna had come to speak to her and found herself sorely mistaken.

"I didn't wake you?" Fleur asked, moving quietly across the wooden floor. She was pale in the dim candle light, her eyes lacking their usual brightness. "Ginny mentioned that you were leaving…"

Hermione sighed and dropped her head. Why was it so difficult to do the right thing? She'd _heard_ Fleur and Bill. She _knew_ there wasn't any place for her anymore. She knew that with the certainty that she knew she'd wronged her parents dreadfully.

Beyond all that, her heart was too raw to even try and sort out her tangled, confused emotions. So she nodded and tugged at her pillow, wondering briefly who would sleep in this bed when the school year started anew.

Fleur's hand, though warm and gentle, was almost unwelcome. She was barely holding herself together and she couldn't face her lover in that moment. She wanted nothing more than to shrug away from her. She wanted nothing more than to embrace her.

"I am," she said instead. She folded her arms and refused to meet Fleur's gaze. The hand on her shoulder tightened and she heard Fleur take a quick breath.

"Don't," she said, almost immediately. "Please, don't. Stay, please."

"Fleur," she sighed, gathering her courage and stepping away. She turned and gazed out the window, watching the stars in the great green depths of the night sky. It _hurt_. The fading warmth on her shoulder stung like frost and the absence of Fleur's scent filled her with new loss. "I have to go."

"No," Fleur said, firmly, stepping up behind her. "This has gone on long enough!" she spat, her words catching in her throat. "This nonsense. My nonsense."

Hermione tightened her grip on herself and stared up at the sky. She found herself wholeheartedly agreeing with that particular sentiment. Beneath the exhaustion, beneath the sorrow, her anger was coming back to life. Fanned by Fleur's words.

"This, everything we've done, has all been on your terms," she said, quietly. "But I decided to trust you, despite knowing that you were keeping the pertinent facts from me. So that's my fault."

"Hermione-"

"No!" Hermione said, hot anger flaring from the very deepest parts of her. She whirled to Fleur and frowned mightily at her. "Don't! I know I was an idiot to trust you."

To trust that _anyone_ would want her.

Fleur's mouth fell open and her eyes filled with tears. "You weren't an idiot," she said, swallowing thickly. "You were brave. You followed your instinct."

Hermione scoffed at that, feeling her own tears build. "Yeah, and that worked out well for me." She looked down, trying to compose herself. "Look, I'm too tired for this. And I need to go."

"Why?" Fleur asked, wiping at her eyes. "Ginny said it was important."

The anger leeched from her and she sagged against the bedpost. The image of her parents' kind faces swam before her eyes and she bit her lip. Skeeter was right. What kind of person could do such a thing? She had, without anything resembling consent, robbed her parents of most of their identity. They didn't even think they were dentists anymore.

It was somewhat ridiculous, how much that bothered her. The fact that ensuring a clean split from their old lives had necessitated hiding that part of them. It had been worse than erasing herself because as she'd done it, she'd seen how _hard_ they'd worked. They'd studied for years, slogging through university for term after term. They'd known so much, things she knew nothing about. Resin and alginate, protein and the correct procedure for taking a batwing X-ray and a thousand other things.

And she'd hidden all that hard won knowledge behind a vast, impenetrable cloud. Monica and Wendell were some sort of civil servants, the kind who did things no one would ever ask about or ponder too strenuously. Her face burned and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"I have to go get my parents," she said, sounding young even to her own ears. Tears rolled over her cheeks and when Fleur reached out to wipe them from her face, she didn't pull away.

"Are they safe?" she asked, softly.

"I don't know," she replied. "I don't know exactly where they are. I…" she opened her eyes but couldn't make Fleur's face out. "I sent them away."

Fleur pulled her into her arms and held her, stroking her hair and Hermione _hated_ herself for throwing her arms around her. She hated how despite knowing how wrong this was, she still couldn't resist the feeling of strong arms around her shoulders or the scent of Fleur's skin. The sound of her breath and heart beat.

_This is the last time. One last time. I'll let go after this last time._

"Then find them," Fleur whispered, her strong voice wobbly beside her ear. "Find them and come back."

_Come back to what?_

Fleur married to Bill. Fleur refusing to leave Bill.

Perhaps it was for the best. Bill was a good man and he clearly adored Fleur. He treated her well and showed no sign of letting her go. Wouldn't she be happier with him?

_Fight for her!_

Fleur tightened her grip and flatted her hands on her back, pressing her cheek to her head, seemingly unnerved by her lack of response. "I'll go with you."

Hermione almost laughed. She almost wept. All she had to do was ask and Fleur would follow her. With a word, she could bring her along, company and moral support for when she found her parents.

_Moral? With a word, you'd break up a marriage. Hardly moral behaviour._

"No," she said instead. Impossible as it seemed, Fleur's grip tightened and she drew a breath. Her slack anger transmuted to frustration, Hermione drew her face back. "No, I know you're going to argue but stop it!"

Fleur blinked, clearly taken aback. Hermione shook her head. "You asked me not to argue with you once, back in the cottage. You said your willpower wasn't strong enough." She swallowed thickly. "Well neither is mine. But I have to go and do this and you have to stay here. With Bill."

Fleur opened her mouth but Hermione reached up, hand shaking as it paused over Fleur's lips. Blue eyes flicked to it, divining her intent and apparently understanding her hesitation. "Please. So much has happened and I know I'm a coward for leaving now but…"

_But I can't bear to hear that you love him._

"But it's my mum and dad."

Something inside Hermione recognised it as a low blow even as something brittle shattered in Fleur's gaze.

"And I have to go to them."

_And I have to get away from you._

"And I'm sorry for leaving now but I need to make sure they're safe."

_I need to make sure I don't do anything selfish._

"Safe and happy."

_I'd never make you happy. I can't even make myself happy._

She hung her head, ashamed at herself for exploiting something that she knew to be a weakness of Fleur's. But in the end, it was the right thing to do. They'd had their night; they'd played their part in the war and now the world was safe. It was time to get back to normal.

_We had our night. It was the most incredible experience I've ever had but I always knew it would only be for a night._

She pulled back from Fleur, her beautiful face lined with misery and shining blue eyes spilling tears down her cheeks. She wanted nothing more than to press back against her, to lean into her and let her breath be stolen. To escape to that refuge that they'd built between them.

To believe the promises Fleur had built from words and touches; to believe in the love she'd been offered.

Parts of her did, if she were honest with herself. The parts that ached and screamed as she stood on her toes and pressed a long kiss to Fleur's lips. The parts gently received and answered in kind.

"I have to go," she said, after sinking down and standing back. There was so much else she wanted to say but words failed her. She had no idea how to thank Fleur for the many small ways she'd shown her love. For caring for her in Shell Cottage.

"I have to get to the portkey before someone else uses it," she said, more to convince herself than Fleur. "I'll be back as soon as I can. It shouldn't take long."

Fleur nodded, wringing her hands and gazing miserably at her. Hermione's resolve almost broke but then she remembered the anger she'd felt in the woods; the despair and heartache behind the tapestry. She clenched her jaw and took a breath.

"I want to fight with you," Fleur said, her voice hollow. "I want to argue. To beg you to stay."

_I want the same._

"But I suppose I don't have the right to do that, now," she said. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to avoid Fleur's because she knew that she would be utterly defenceless against the taut entreaty she knew would shine there.

"It has to wait until I come back."

_If I come back._

"I'll wait, then," Fleur said, tears coating her words.

Hermione felt a tell tale burn behind her eye lids and took a deep breath.

"It's my mum and dad, Fleur," she whispered. She hated herself then, for knowing the words that would allow her to escape quickly.

"I understand," Fleur said, almost as quietly. "Family, you cannot turn your back on it."

Hermione nodded and turned from Fleur's voice. She was facing her bed and she picked up her beaded bag, shrugging it over her shoulder. She had no idea what else to say. How to end this strange affair and move on. She felt as if she should have something insightful or perhaps scathing to say but all she wanted to do was grab Fleur and never release her.

_Stop being so bloody pathetic!_

So she just cleared her throat and said good-bye, glancing at Fleur out of the corner of her eye, a flash of silver hair and slumped shoulders. What more was there to do, she wondered. Her feet moved almost of their own accord and before she knew it, she was gently closing the door behind her.

And as she walked out of the dormitory tower, leaving Fleur standing with her head bowed, she realised that for all they'd shared, pain and joy and affection alike, she loved Fleur.

_I do. I really do. And I want what's best for her._

_Even if that's not me._

* * *

><p>Fleur was standing on an isolated terrace, gazing out as dawn began to lighten the sky. Bill approached her on heavy, tired feet. The scent of mead and whiskey enveloped him and Fleur almost found herself smiling, recalling happier days.<p>

"You all right?"

"You heard, so," she sighed.

"Yeah… Australia."

Fleur's heart slammed against her ribs. Australia? Hermione had gone to _Australia_? She spun and her eyes met Bill's, pale in the starlight and she was filled with anger and despair and it was all so _unfair_!

So unfair.

"When's she coming back?" Bill asked quietly.

"I have no idea. Perhaps she won't."

Bill's eyes widened and his face crumpled with grief and guilt.

"Fuck."

* * *

><p><em>You came to me this morning<em>  
><em>And you handled me like meat.<em>  
><em>You'd have to live alone to know<em>  
><em>How good that feels, how sweet.<em>  
><em>My mirror twin, my next of kin,<em>  
><em>I'd know you in my sleep.<em>  
><em>And who, but you, could take me in<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep?<em>

_I loved you when you opened_  
><em>Like a lily to the heat.<em>  
><em>You see, I'm just another snowman<em>  
><em>Standing in the rain and sleet.<em>  
><em>Who loved you with his frozen love,<em>  
><em>His second hand physique.<em>  
><em>With all he is, and all he was,<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep.<em>

_All soaked in sex and pressed against_  
><em>The limits of the sea.<em>  
><em>I saw there were no oceans left<em>  
><em>For scavengers like me.<em>  
><em>We made it to the forward deck<em>  
><em>I blessed out remnant fleet.<em>  
><em>And then consented to be wrecked<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep.<em>

_So what about that inner light_  
><em>That's boundless and unique?<em>  
><em>I'm slouching through another night<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep.<em>

_The pony's run, the girls are young_  
><em>The odds are there to beat.<em>  
><em>You win a while but then it's done<em>  
><em>Your little winning streak.<em>  
><em>And summoned now to deal<em>  
><em>With your invincible defeat.<em>  
><em>You live your life as if it's real<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep.<em>

_And I'm still working with the wine_  
><em>Still dancing cheek to cheek.<em>  
><em>The band is playing Auld Lang Syne<em>  
><em>But the heart will not retreat.<em>  
><em>I ran with Dante, I sang with Ray,<em>  
><em>I never had their sweep.<em>  
><em>But once or twice they'd let me play.<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep.<em>

_I'm good at love, I'm good at hate_  
><em>It's in between I freeze.<em>  
><em>Been working out but it's too late<em>  
><em>It's been too late for years.<em>  
><em>But you look good, you really do,<em>  
><em>They love you on the street.<em>  
><em>If I could move I'd move for you<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep.<em>

_And sometimes when the night is slow_  
><em>The wretched and the meek,<em>  
><em>We gather up our hearts and go<em>  
><em>A thousand kissed deep.<em>

_I know you had to lie to me,_  
><em>I know you had to cheat.<em>  
><em>But the means no longer guarantee<em>  
><em>The Virtue in deceit.<em>  
>That <em>truth is bent<em>, That _beauty spent,_  
>That <em>style is obsolete,<em>  
><em>Ever since the holy spirit went<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep.<em>

_The autumn moved across your skin_  
><em>Got something in my eye.<em>  
><em>A light that doesn't to live<em>  
><em>And doesn't need to die.<em>  
><em>A riddle in the book of love<em>  
><em>Obscure and obsolete.<em>  
><em>Till witnessed here in time and blood<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep.<em>

_And now you are the Angel Death_  
><em>And now the Paraclete;<em>  
><em>And now you are the saviour's breath<em>  
><em>And now the Belsen heap.<em>  
><em>No turning from the threat of love<em>  
><em>No transcendental leap<em>  
><em>As witnessed here in time and blood<em>  
><em>A thousand kisses deep.<em>

Leonard Cohen - A Thousand Kisses Deep

* * *

><p>The late summer sun warmed the kitchen, the music of the surf almost playful outside the open windows. The curtains fluttered in the warm breeze and chimes sang. Fleur set her journal aside, sighing tiredly. It was much too nice a day to waste inside, she mused but she had little desire to go out and face the world around her. It had been months since Hermione had come and gone but she'd left indelible traces in her wake. Or so it seemed to Fleur. Most of the time, her absence was a dull ache in the background, something easily ignored.<p>

Not today, though. Today was glorious; a day where the sand was scorched, the sky endlessly blue and the sea lacking its usual chill. Her home was warm and filled with the perfume of roses and the buzz of fat bees. Lavender, lilac and honeysuckle curled around the south side of the house, more fragrant than any bottled scent. She wanted nothing more than to share this with Hermione, to show her the simple wonders of this place. She wanted to share the yellow roses drooping heavily on the bush she'd planted. She wanted to feed her honey from the hives she tended. She wanted to lie with her in the warm sand and make up for all her transgressions.

But here she sat alone with her regret and memories. Summer was almost at an end and she'd seen neither hide nor hair of Hermione. No one had heard from her either, save Harry who refused to say exactly what she was doing. He'd apparently decided that his friend deserved a break. Fleur would have been infuriated, had she not agreed with the sentiment wholeheartedly. Hermione did indeed deserve a holiday, but it galled Fleur that she wasn't there with her.

She was almost at the point where she could go the whole day without thinking about her one time lover. She could almost pass a night without spending every moment before slumber reliving their time together. She could almost sleep without dreaming of a life with her.

Fleur sighed, annoyed with herself. She was spending far too much time indulging this maudlin, defeatist side of herself. She stood and wrapped her arms around her sides, gazing through the window at the bright sand. Would there ever be a time when she could look back at what had happened and remember without shame the joy they'd shared?

She'd admitted to herself, to Hermione and to Bill what she felt. She knew that this had not pleased either of them, her honesty had cost her dearly. She had repaired her relationship with Bill, though she knew he'd never see her the same way again. She'd laid her selfishness bare, shown her willingness to ignore the consequences of her actions in order to please herself. If not for his loyalty would have left, she knew. He held her in such high esteem that seeing her now as she truly was must have been gutting. Bill, for all his wary nature and suspicious ways, was someone who needed to believe in the people he loved. He was capable of overlooking many imperfections but her recent actions went far beyond that.

And Hermione?

She almost laughed to herself. What a mess she'd made! She'd been desperate and terrified at the time, convinced that the world was on the brink of destruction. She'd seen a resolve in Hermione, a willingness to do whatever it took, even if that meant death. She'd never been so terrified as when she imagined the consequences of such a mentality. She'd been so desperate to prevent it from coming to pass that she'd thrown caution, sense and all logic out the window. Looking back now, in peaceful and calm times, she felt absurd.

But it had been real, all that fear and anxiety. It _had_ felt like the end of the world. It wasn't her fault that the bloody thing had kept on spinning after all. She found herself reading her journals and already she found it difficult to put herself in that mental space, to remember the horrible things that had taken place. She supposed it was natural, it wasn't the kind of thing that one should dwell upon but it was difficult to abandon. Months and almost years of _angor_ _animi_ took their toll on the soul.

The surf hissed against the sand and gulls cried overhead. She felt a crooked smile sneak onto her face. Whatever else, no matter what she'd done, Hermione was alive somewhere. She was out there, enjoying the world and her place in it. She wasn't going to be hunted down for being muggle born or Harry Potter's best friend. She could go out and enjoy herself and be happy. She could even fall in love, build a life with someone.

Fleur still felt embarrassed at how much she wanted to be that someone. She banished the thought and lifted her journal, heading to the parlour to put it away. She stuffed it onto the shelf and rubbed her eyes. Evening would fall soon and Bill would arrive home. She'd suggested a picnic or barbecue that morning and wondered if he'd still fancy it. It'd be nice to sit and chat to him for a while, she decided. Standing around mooning after an absent lover was foolish, she knew. It was childish.

She made her way to the kitchen to wash some lettuce and tomatoes, glad for the distraction provided by the mundane domestic tasks. She wondered how Bill would do when she wasn't there. He could cook and was a neat man but he was busy. He'd cook for someone else but never for himself, she knew. She'd often teased him about it.

She set the salad aside, covering it with a clean tea towel, and went to root the barbecue out from the cupboard beneath the stairs. It contained an enormous number of items, most of which would probably be happier in a dump somewhere, all shrunken down to fit in the little space. It often made finding what one needed quite difficult. She contemplated what destruction the use of a misplaced Accio charm would cause, squinting into the gloom.

She heard the back door open and nodded happily. Bill had put the damn thing away; let him find it.

"'Allo?" she called, wiping her hands and heading back, "do you still fancy having a…"

She trailed off. Her mouth gaped open. Her hand flew to hide her gasp. There, in battered muggle clothes and sporting a tan, stood Hermione Granger.

"Hermione," she breathed, her heart pounding in her her chest. "You're back."

Hermione nodded, unsure in herself. As though she couldn't quite believe that she was back either. Fleur longed to rush to her, to embrace her and never let her go. But she was frozen in place, her legs weak and shaky.

"I am," she said, taking a deep breath. Her dark eyes shone and Fleur found herself, for probably the first time, the focus of Hermione's powerful intellect. There was a question in her gaze and Fleur felt like a puzzle under her scrutiny. It was not a particularly pleasant sensation.

"Scaldie, one of the house elves found this," she said after a long moment, opening her hand to reveal, much to Fleur's surprise, the moonstone from the necklace she'd lost.

"And he gave it to me to give to you," Hermione said, taking a deep breath. "And I didn't. I kept it because whenever I looked at it, I could remember things so clearly. I could see you in front of me on the beach and… and it made it easier to leave."

Fleur nodded, quite baffled. She resisted the urge to interrupt but stepped closer, peering down at the stone. She'd bought the necklace on a whim one day. She'd been wandering Diagon Ally on a break from work and it had caught her eye, a pretty trinket.

Hermione took a breath, steeling herself before she continued. "And I was lying on a beach in Australia, on my own one night, when I realised something."

"And what was that?"

"That this was the _only_ piece of jewellery you wore that night. That I ever saw you wear in Shell Cottage."

Blood roared in Fleur's ears, relief and joy and trepidation filling her as she realised that it was time to finally tell the truth. She clenched her fists and saw Hermione's eyes flick to her bare left hand.

* * *

><p>This chapter features a poem by Leonard Cohen called <em>A Thousand Kisses Deep<em>. Or rather, it features some bits of it, put together in an order of my own devising. Now, there's a reason for this. This poem exists in many versions and does mutate, depending on the needs of Mr Cohen. So I took the parts which seemed to fit best and jammed them in. Make no mistake, the words, the imagery and the sentiment are his and I'm just borrowing from them.

Hmm. Well, I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. Things finally get explaned next time around. We're in the home stretch now so thank you to everyone who's stuck with it! Please drop me a note and let me know what you think!


	16. A Riddle in the Book of Love

Dear Reader,

Well, here's the next bit! It's bloody long, so please get comfy. A sincere word of thanks to all those who've sent messages, left reviews and read this bloody thing! I hope you're enjoying reading it as much as I am writing it.

**Edited **22/03/13.

**Chapter Fifteen: A riddle in the book of love**

The August sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky painted a rich, deep shade of blue better suited to warmer climes than the Southwest coast of England. The marram grass was softer than she remembered, pliant and green as it danced in the wind. The surf hissed languidly against the sand, the dull roar of the sea muted beneath the call of birds, the clatter of wings and the buzz of insects. Chimes sang quietly, tinkling in the warm breeze brushing the eaves of Shell Cottage. Hermione closed her eyes, savouring the moment; enjoying how the familiar scent of the sea was enriched by lush, growing things. She opened them slowly, colour momentarily lost, and settled her hand on the warm, rough wood of the little gate guarding the cottage. Sunshine caught the shells, the reflection blinding as shattered shards of rainbow light glittered in the glare. The young witch wondered if she couldn't simply spend a couple of hours there just enjoying the base comfort of warmth and simple life, rather than face the trials she was sure to find within.

In truth, Hermione didn't know what to expect on entry. For months, she'd tried to avoid thinking about this place, concentrating instead on other matters, her parents first and foremost. She'd really tried. But Shell Cottage, and Fleur, had a habit of popping uninvited into her mind at the most inconvenient of times. She stood outside the little house, suddenly feeling foolish in her old jeans and faded t-shirt. What was she there for, really?

Her grip tightened on the gate. She was there for answers, in the first instance. She was very sure about this. Fleur had told her that she'd lied about the meaning of their night on the beach and heartache had robbed Hermione of her higher faculties. But after some consideration, and distance, she'd realised that her earlier assumption was likely correct; that the other witch hadn't lied about _everything_. Something _had_ happened as they left the circle hand in hand. Fleur had seemed a bit baffled, though, which worried Hermione slightly. Had she never thought the ritual would work? Had the entire spell been a contrivance from the start?

If so, why? Hermione couldn't begin to comprehend that part of the puzzle. She couldn't understand what Fleur saw in her that made it worthwhile to risk her marriage for a night together. Hermione didn't think she suffered from a particular lack of self esteem but she didn't feel anything close to the definition of attractive or even particularly interesting. She still couldn't quite believe that she'd actually been involved in an extramarital affair, for that matter. The fact that Bill had known about it beforehand did little to reassure her.

A large, sensible part of her was holding onto was the short, strange conversations that had occurred at Fleur's bedside after the battle and in the woods. What didn't she know? Did Bill and Fleur have some sort of an open relationship? Did the idea of his wife bringing another woman to bed appeal to Bill? She found the idea incredibly uncomfortable and quite creepy. Given that she'd never found Bill to be creepy, she was hanging on for an alternative explanation. Had he dismissed their dalliance because they were both women? This was more likely, she admitted, though much more disheartening.

But in the deep, secret parts of her she wondered why they'd married at _all_. It was clear they loved each other but what if it was akin to herself and Harry? She adored the boy, would do (and had done) anything for him but felt their current intimacy was quite sufficient, thank you very much. What if Bill and Fleur married to protect her from the new, draconian laws enacted against those of their world who weren't pure blooded? Did the Veela count as creatures in the eyes of the law? She wasn't sure and Voldemort's draconian edicts had left plenty of room for creative interpretation. She hated pursuing that train of thought, though; it seemed far too optimistic and simplistic. Life was rarely simple, she mused, eying the door to the cottage, and optimism brought disappointment more often than not.

Buried below even those parts of her was the voice that asked _if_ they'd married. It was irrational. After all, she'd seen them wed. But she found herself unable to dismiss the notion entirely. She hadn't realised it at the time, hadn't realised it for months, but Fleur had never worn a wedding ring and neither had Bill. It had come as such a shock that she'd lost her breath. Lying on a beach in a quiet part of Australia, tears drying on her cheeks after an angry confrontation with her parents, she'd felt utterly alone and quite miserable. Waves had pounded the shore as stars wheeled overhead, though set in strange new constellations. She'd drawn Fleur's moonstone from her pocket and for the first time, allowed herself to really _remember_.

In the midst of those warm, laughing memories, so sensual and enticing, she saw Fleur reaching for her again and again. She'd never hesitated before touching her and never wavered in her affection. And it made Hermione feel ridiculous to never have realised the significance, but whenever Fleur had reached for her, she'd extended a bare hand. Her breath had been robbed at the revelation and she'd felt as though several gallons of water had been dumped on top of her.

She couldn't dwell on it; she refused to. She would not torment herself with speculation and supposition before she knew what was really going on. But anticipation coiled in her gut, rather than fear, and she wondered what else her subconscious mind had noted and kept from her waking brain. It was a novel experience; she'd always considered the subconscious to be an invention of the lazy minded and had never really accepted that she'd been in possession of one.

But then, she'd never imagined she'd find herself in love with a woman, either.

A miniscule part of her, one which terrified her, whispered quietly, but constantly, of love. Fleur had confessed her love during the Battle and what was more, she'd shown it in a thousand small ways. In the kind touches and smiles she'd bestowed. In the quiet moments they'd shared. But _that_ was more than Hermione could face because she felt, deeply, that it was too good to be true. She felt that the moment she allowed herself to even entertain the notion, she'd be lost.

Well, more lost than she already was. She banished the thoughts and frowned at the cottage. She locked those silly, woolly notions and theories away and steeled herself, clearing her mind of all but the most basic facts.

She swung the gate open, smiling at the light shimmer of the household wards and she passed. They were much reduced since last she'd seen them, guarding against those with evil intent and nothing else. They apparently found her harmless and admitted her without alerting Fleur. She paused, looking out over the sea and gathering her courage. Whatever happened she promised herself that she'd act like an adult. Herself and Fleur had shared something and perhaps still did. They'd probably be good together but that wouldn't change the fact that Fleur was married. Whatever about the madness of war, in the calm after the storm it was difficult to justify that kind of carry on.

Hermione shook her head and stepped through the back door, her heart clenching at the familiar sights. The scent of warm air and flowers permeated the little house and she closed her eyes briefly, wondering what it would be like to come home to this; to Fleur. To _her and Fleur._ She felt her heart sink and shook her head, dismissing the thought.

She was there to have questions answered, she firmly reminded herself. She wasn't there to fall into Fleur's arms like some kind of Mills and Boon heroine.

_At least,_ she mused as she heard Fleur's voice from within, _that's the plan._

* * *

><p>Fleur was gob-smacked. She dropped her hand and let out a delighted and shaky laugh. She couldn't help it; she should have felt guilty or apprehensive but she was utterly delighted to see Hermione. Joy overwhelmed her, chasing away all the loneliness and guilt she'd been buried beneath. She felt tears gather and without a second thought, wrapped the other witch in a warm embrace. Finally! She could <em>finally<em> tell the truth!

_Oh! My clever girl! I knew you'd figure it out!_

"Welcome back," she whispered, closing her eyes. She didn't know what else to say or where to begin. There was so _much_ to say, after all. Hermione gasped in her ams and returned the embrace after a long moment of hesitation, her earlier sternness somewhat abated, only to be replaced by nervousness.

"Thank you," she said, carefully extricating herself. "It's good to be back." Her dark eyes seemed brighter against her tanned skin, the golden flecks in them easier to discern. Her hair was a touch lighter as well, caramel highlights striping the bushy mass. Fleur didn't think she'd ever seen her look so beautiful and drank in the sight of her, unable to look away.

Unable and unwilling. After all, what did it matter now? Now that Hermione _knew_? Her heart stuttered in her chest and she realised that she was finally free to gaze upon her. Free to pursue her lover's affection. Free to demonstrate and prove how much she cared. These realisations dried her mouth and robbed her breath as her nerves suddenly jangled to life.

"I'm glad you came back," she breathed, smiling nervously. "Not that Australia wouldn't have been lovely..." she said, a hint of grief in the statement. Hermione dipped her head, shaking it ruefully.

"It was, but not the place for me, to be honest. I mean, I'd half decided to never come back, to just start again somewhere else." She sighed. "But when I realised," she said, quietly, glancing at Fleur's finger before lifting shining, wary eyes. "I knew I had to come back, that there was something I was missing."

"You were correct in _that_ assumption," Fleur said, only half joking. Relief, anticipation and excitement made her giddy and she wasn't sure what source these words had.

Hermione smiled faintly. "But we still need Bill, I suppose?"

Fleur nodded. "He'll be home within the half hour and we have nothing planned. We're all yours." She held Hermione's gaze boldly then, knowing that the time for lies was past and she could finally, at long last, give herself free reign around the other woman. There was affection between them and a look of wonder in Hermione's eyes, the same expression she'd seen the night they'd made love. Fleur floundered then, her words failing her amidst that thoughtful regard. She felt gauche and clumsy but couldn't bring herself to be embarrassed.

Hermione averted her eyes, though, blushing slightly. "To be honest, I decided to come back before that. It just gave me the impetus I needed. I realised that I can't run away from the whole bloody world. I mean, I have to finish school and I can't just abandon the boys..." she trailed off, perhaps embarrassed to have admitted so much.

"I'm glad," Fleur reassured, smiling, "Is it presumptuous of me to say that I missed you? That I'm happy to see you back?"

That delicate blush gracing Hermione's cheeks darkened and she shook her head. "No, not at all. I missed you, too." She hid her embarrassment with a small smile, apparently cheering despite herself. "Though judging by how surprised you were just now, I wonder if you ever expected to see me again."

Fleur felt some of her nervous tension ease and laughed happily, watching Hermione's eyes crinkle in response. Maybe she hadn't broken what was between them, after all. Her pulse sped again and she recalled a dream, where she'd held Hermione's heart and been warned she would be chased, should she dally too long.

"You look beautiful," she said fondly, "the sun suits you."

Hermione blushed slightly. "Thank you. You look well too. How have things been?"

Fleur shrugged, the subtext clear. "It has been strange. The world is setting itself to right but there is much grief to be overcome, much to be mended." She bit her lip, wondering how much to say. "I was offered a job in Hogwarts."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up and she was quiet for a while. "That's a bit of a change from Gringott's. What will you be doing?"

"My Gra-mere and her sisters are staying to erase the last taint from the Forbidden Forest. Dementors linger there, though their numbers are few. The war party will stay for the next while and more will join from the tribe. I was asked to act as a liaison and, well, I accepted."

Hermione took a moment to digest that, rubbing a hand through her hair. "I see. Will you be living with them?"

"No. In the old gamekeeper's cottage. You could call in for a cup of tea sometime, should you find yourself back in Hogwarts."

Hermione's eyes were wide with surprise and lit with cautious hope. "What about Bill?"

Fleur sighed, shaking her head ruefully. "Bill will have to fend for himself."

They were both quiet for a long while, Fleur watching the cogs turning in the other witch's head. Something like excitement flittered over Hermione's face, followed closely by grief. Such sorrow had no place on such a glorious afternoon and Fleur stepped forward, tipping her head to one side to try and catch her eye.

"After the Battle, Bill mentioned having a long talk. Stay here, have dinner with us. We'll answer all your questions." She laughed ruefully, lifting her bare hand. "Offer apologies, on my part."

Hermione shook her head. "I still feel like _I'm_ the one who should be doing that."

Fleur touched her shoulder gently. "No, never. Please," she said, smiling despite the sombre mood that threatened to descend. "Your return is a happy occasion, there will be no sorrow here."

"I suppose we did have an excess amount recently," Hermione mused. She closed her eyes, apparently taking comfort from their closeness. "Though I _may_ have to remember that I'm very annoyed at you if I'm not allowed to be sad."

"Hermione," Fleur laughed, almost teasingly, delighted to hear the beginning of a playful edge to Hermione's voice, "you are not being fair!"

"How am I being unfair?" she asked, an embarrassed frown knurling her forehead. She raised her eyes and her expression softened. They were very close to one another and it was a simple thing for her to lay a hand on Fleur's arm. "I still am, you know. Never seems to last, though. I've missed you, you impossible bloody woman."

Fleur chuckled and wrapped her arms loosely around Hermione's shoulders, resting her head against the other woman's, feeling something settle in her heart. "My cooking, I presume?"

"Everything," she sighed and Fleur felt eyelashes tickle her neck. When Hermione spoke next, her tone was quiet and subdued, as though she couldn't reveal such things while under scrutiny. She spoke slowly, haltingly, each word wrenched from her as if with great effort.

"It hurt sometimes, thinking back over everything. It felt like home here. I mean, I think of home with mum and dad but it's my childhood home. And I don't know if I can ever go back there, either. Hogwarts was my home for a long time. But now I feel like a different person. A person who was only ever at home in Shell Cottage. Here." She sounded lonely

"I feel the same," Fleur agreed, stroking Hermione's hair and closing her eyes. "I immersed myself in my study and was surrounded by my friends. I felt more myself then than ever before. It seems empty now, though. It's not the same." She took a deep breath. "Are you still _very_ angry with me?"

Hermione sighed, rubbing her forehead wearily against Fleur's shoulder. "I was angry. Then hurt. Angry again. But I couldn't stop thinking about you, for better or worse. So I reserve the right to still be angry. But I can wait until after dinner."

"Of course. Well, I was just getting the barbecue so...," she said, legs almost weak with relief. She went to move backwards, but the other witch's arms did not loosen from her waist. Fleur stilled and called her name gently, worried that she'd again upset her somehow.

Hermione was quiet for a long time. The air was thick around them, with light scents and with possibility. A bright gaze studied her for a long moment and Fleur felt, once more, closer than she'd ever been to the full power of Hermione's intellect. But after holding her, after hearing the humour and fondness in her voice, it didn't seem quite so intimidating anymore.

"My Patronus," Hermione said, softly, "it's an otter too."

"I know." Fleur was curious. Hermione knew well that she knew well, how they shared that part of themselves. Had their charms not danced together after Harry's stag? It had shocked Fleur at the time, her Patronus had never taken corporeal form before, but it made so much _sense_. Of course they matched; the best parts of her were liveliest around Hermione, after all.

"I was never able to conjure one before, not easily. It was a spell I always had trouble with. Until I got my new wand. I've not had a problem with it since then. Well, apart from that first time."

Fleur felt slightly baffled and wasn't sure what to say to that. "There were several dozen Dementors around you; it's not surprising. But I'm pleased. It's a useful spell."

Hermione pulled back and regarded Fleur seriously. "It's more than that," she said, seriously.

The moment was charged, Hermione's eyes dark and enchanting. Fleur nodded her agreement. There was something rare and special about sharing ones Patronus, she knew. It implied an unusual empathy, an uncommon resonance between two people. One could spend their entire life searching for someone like that and never find them. Yet she'd been lucky enough for one to land on her back door step.

Her eyes flicked down to Hermione's parted lips and she was filled with the urge to close the distance between them. She met her eyes again and was glad to see gentle humour shining there, a softness she knew now she'd crave forever. Fleur stood dumbly, her breathing shallow as she watched the other witch. Hermione sighed and leaned forward, dropping a soft, tender kiss to the corner of Fleur's mouth. She pulled away, a light blush gracing her cheeks and Fleur's heart soared.

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to Hermione's. There was no hesitation then, from either of them. Hermione whispered her name and she felt her heart ache. Fleur gasped and tightened her grasp of the other witch, turning her face and deepening the kiss. Hermione groaned and her finger tips pressed into Fleur's hips before one hand slid around to her back.

She was, Fleur thought, sweeter than honey. Her mouth, lips, tongue and breath drew her in and left her gasping. How she had missed this! One arm dropped to hold slim shoulders while the other fell to her waist, longing to feel once again the warmth of her skin. Memories of that night, when the stars had wheeled overhead as they'd lain together in the sand overwhelmed her and she longed to touch the other woman, to bury herself in every part of her. Her hand felt warm flesh and, without conscious volition, was drawn up frantically moving ribs, reaching the rude frame of a bra. Hermione moaned and arched into her at the touch, drawing tears to Fleur's eyes.

"Fleur! What on earth is going on!"

Her heart thudded within her chest and her eyes flew open at the shrill intrusion. She shared a fleeting glance with her shocked lover before the pair pulled clumsily away from one another, panting and flushed. Fleur resisted the urge to wipe her mouth, but only just.

She was utterly horrified to note Molly, Arthur, Bill, George, Ron and Harry standing gob-smacked in the kitchen doorway. The top of Ginny's head was visible, hopping up and down behind Ron and George in an effort to see what was happening.

_Molly. Of course._

_Merde._

Her pulse thundered in her ears and she stepped slightly in front of Hermione, trembling and sickly faint. The slack jawed stares of their audience were not helping in the slightest as she cast desperately about for something to say.

"Bill!" she said her voice croaking, "I didn't realise you'd be bringing company," she said, immediately regretting her words. How cliché! Bill at least had the good grace to look utterly horrified, tossing worried looks between his family, his wife and the young woman squirming in his kitchen.

"Uh, well, I thought if we were having a barbecue, it'd be nice, like…" he said, lamely, holding up a lumpy bag bearing the logo of their local butcher's shop. His face was chalky and she could see his hands shaking. He was breathing quickly and staring at her as though she were a raft in the middle of a stormy ocean. She met his gaze with her own, frowning sadly at him, wishing that he could have been spared this.

_And that he'd made more noise before entering!_

Hermione, coming somewhat to her senses, gave a terrified little squeak and took a step backwards. But Fleur reached behind, grabbing her wrist. Her grip was sure and the other witch's progress halted. Arthur turned towards them and seeing Hermione's terror, his face softened. "Hermione, dear, it's all right."

His gentle voice broke the spell that held them all entranced. Molly sank backwards and would have toppled to the ground, had Harry not summoned a chair with great alacrity. She slumped forward, her face buried in her hands and she seemed to shrink in on herself, crumpled and old. Bill's wide eyes turned to her and Fleur could see the pulse hammering in his throat.

Arthur sighed. "I'm going to make a cuppa." He clapped a hand on Bill's shoulder as he passed. "It's all right, son."

Ron was purple in the face and glared furiously at his father as he sidled off towards the kettle. "All right? All right my arse! What have you done to her?" he demanded of Fleur. "What do you think you're bloody doing? You're married to my sodding brother!"

Bill blinked and frowned, coming out of his stupor somewhat.

"Yeah," Bill said coldly, his face folded into a mighty frown, "don't you forget that. Calm down now, Ron."

"What?" Ron spat, turning to his brother, incoherent with rage.

Molly heaved a great sigh and lifted her blotchy face. Tears shone in her dark eyes and despite everything between them, Fleur felt a mighty wave of sympathy for the woman. Molly stared at Bill, a great sadness written plainly on her face, and sighed again.

"It didn't make a difference, then?" she asked in a quiet, fragile voice, jarring in its dissimilarity to her normally strident tones. Fleur tried to look away, to give them the privacy they deserved for such a moment but found she could not. Bill's frown deepened before he heaved a great sigh and lowered his eyes, staring at his boots for a long moment. Her heart broke for him and she longed to rush forward and crush him in her arms. Hermione's hand was slick with sweat in her own and Fleur almost tugged her forwards, yearning for her warmth.

The room was silent and had it not have been for the clink of vessels on the dresser or the cry of gulls outside, Fleur would have thought the moment frozen by some strange enchantment. Bill lifted his eyes and stared at his mother, shame and resignation marring his normally proud features.

"No. It didn't. But did you really think it was going to?"

Tears spilled over Molly's cheeks as she held Bill's gaze. She closed her eyes sadly and lowered her face. "I suppose not. But…"

"You hoped," Bill said in a small, choked voice, his own eyes filling with tears. Fleur felt Hermione take a shaky breath and turned to glance at her. She was pale and worried but her face showed tremendous activity as she digested all she heard. Fleur turned to the other Weasleys and Harry, seeing shock and disbelief and anger. Ron sneered murderously at her and clenched his fist, the tops of his ears bright red. He seemed ready to speak when Arthur sent a tray floating in bearing a pot of tea surrounded by mismatched mugs.

"Better sit. Would the sitting room be a good idea?" George, ever the peacemaker, chirped nervously, taking full advantage of the distraction. He nodded to Ginny, who gently led Harry away, before steering Ron through the door beside them. As Fleur and Hermione shuffled in, they found the stocky wizard pressing Ron into an armchair.

Milk and sugar zoomed after them as everyone found seats. Dazedly, Fleur found herself and Hermione on the settee before the Weasleys, holding out their cups for milk in what felt like a totally bizarre manner, given the extraordinary circumstances. Harry was blushing furiously, refusing to meet anyone's gaze and Arthur was fiddling with his saucer. George and Ginny were shooting curious looks around the room while Ron seemed unable to decide whether to glare at herself, Hermione or Bill.

Molly took a deep breath and turned to the pair of women. "So, might I presume you two are together, then?"

Before they even had a chance to look at one another and try to answer that _very_ difficult question, Ron jumped out of his seat.

"No way! No _fucking_ way! Fleur did something, with her Veelaness!"

"Steady on, lad," George cautioned, while Molly and Arthur gasped over his language.

"No! Piss off! This is why you wouldn't even _look_ at me, is it?" he demanded of Hermione. "Because of her? That fucking slag?" Fleur felt anger blossom in her chest and would have drawn her wand, had Hermione not begun to tremble beside her.

"RON!" Bill roared, jumping to his feet and grabbing a fistful of Ron's shirt, tossing him back into his seat. Ron slumped back, shaking and pale with rage against the seat back. He was quiet though, surprised by the rare reminder of his brother's ferocity. "Do not _ever_ speak about Fleur like that."

He turned and stepped to the little settee, leaning on the arm beside Fleur and laying an unsteady hand on her shoulder. She looked up with gratitude before turning back to Hermione and smiling softly. The brunette seemed to draw strength from that and glared at Ron.

"Fleur didn't do anything like that. I, we, I mean…" she trailed off, averting her gaze from Ron's furious stare.

"_Are_ you together?" Ginny asked, gently, her soft brown eyes holding no hint of anger and only the slightest reproach. Hermione evidently felt like utter rubbish for keeping this from her friend and tears welled up in her eyes.

Fleur sighed and shook her head, gathering her own courage. "No, we're not. But-"

"But you're married!" Ron spluttered, hitting a balled fist off the arm of his chair. "And since when are you a fucking rubster, anyway? Fairy princess is fucking right!"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" his father roared, "I will not have you speaking in such hateful tones!"

"Why not! She's pulled the wool over all of us, hasn't she? Marrying Bill and all?" he spat.

"You got a problem with that, Ron?" Bill asked, quietly. "Do you? Because Fleur isn't the only _fucking fairy_ here right now!" His face was pale, his awful scars standing out in terrible relief. He was trembling again and Fleur could detect the sharp, acrid scent of fear from him. But this was his battle to fight, she thought sadly. She must have looked every bit as miserable as she felt, as Hermione turned to her and gripped her hand tightly despite her best friend's ire.

"Son," Arthur said, trying to soothe his eldest, "please, lad. Don't speak like that." He took a deep breath and then a sip of tea. "Your mam and me don't like hearing that sort of muck. We brought _all_ of you up better than that."

"Fine," Bill said, taking a deep breath, "have you a problem with lesbians, Ron? Or gay men?"

Fleur found herself holding her breath. She _knew_ what was coming, what was happening next. Her heart sped up and she felt a certain thrill run through her. As terrified as he was, as she herself was, he was _finally_ going to do it. He was finally going to tell the truth. Gripping Hermione's hand tightly, she called up every scrap of affection she held for Bill, every ounce of love she had for him, and imagined it bathing him. Imagined him wearing it like armour.

_Come on, dear one. Be brave!_

"Because I am one," he said, his voice small and shaking. "I'm gay."

* * *

><p>The silence that followed was not as intense as Fleur had imagined it would be. Hermione gasped, George let out a little squawk and Ginny dropped her mug. Harry caught said mug before it could tumble to the unforgiving flagstones, warm tea sloshing over his fist. He hissed and blushed furiously. Molly heaved another great sigh and Arthur nodded, only a little bit awkward.<p>

But despite all that Bill had feared, the world did not end. Birds still chirped outside and waves still rolled up the beach. His siblings gawked at him and turned incredulous glances to Fleur and Hermione. Hermione, for her part, was blinking furiously, her eyes focused on matters far removed. Fleur could almost _see_ her slotting things around in her head, mulling them over and fitting them together. She seemed to come out of her stupor and shook her head slowly. She shifted on the couch and stared up at Bill, confusion and hurt and sympathy warring for dominance.

Bill drew a shaky breath and nodded at her, pale and wobbly. He looked fit to collapse. George stood up and crossed the floor, embracing his big brother firmly, without a word. He slapped his back before drawing back.

"Explains a lot," he chuckled, shaking his head incredulously.

"Oi," said Ginny, smacking him on the shoulder, "what's that supposed to mean?" she asked, leaning over to Bill herself, almost lost in his broad arms. Bill's eyes were screwed shut, his pale face regaining some colour as he clutched his baby sister to his chest.

"Tell you when fewer delicate ears are about," George muttered. Arthur pretended to not hear that remark, smiling wistfully instead. Molly was dabbing her eyes with a hanky. Ron was blinking rapidly and Harry was still holding Ginny's mug, sporting a slightly lost expression behind his spectacles.

Bill's eyes opened as Ginny drew back and Fleur had never seen such relief light a face. His eyes brightened and his scars seemed to fade. She remembered him when they'd first met, young and filled with hope and completely unaware of the heart ache that the years to come would bring. She reached over and kissed his cheek, smiling against his stubble.

"You see, mon loup, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Bill chose not to answer, laughing tremulously instead.

"Sorry to break this up," Ron snarled, "but what does that have to do with you two?" he demanded, glaring at Fleur and Hermione.

"Ron." Harry barked, finally setting the mug down. "Come on, don't be a prat."

"No," Fleur sighed, staring at the ruddy young man. "If you wish to know about myself and Bill, we will be more than happy to tell you." Bill nodded, queasy with relief and giddy at the prospect of finally telling his family. She glared at Ron, allowing her own native ferocity to surface, almost _daring_ him to mention Hermione again.

He scowled at them but wisely said nothing, folding his arms. Ginny and George sat back down, the former frowning.

"You knew," she said, facing her mother and father.

Arthur nodded, a bemused and slightly contrite expression on his face. "We've known for a while."

Molly was staring at her feet and did not favour anyone with a glance. Fleur inhaled deeply and held her breath, trying to slow her heart rate. The older witch seemed in no mood to join the conversation and Fleur felt sorrow cross her heart once again. So, it wasn't going to be _that_ easy, then.

"You know how we met," Bill said, swallowing before he continued. "We worked in Gringott's. The short version is, well… You-Know-Who wasn't fond of our kind," he sighed.

"Our?" Hermione whispered, almost inaudibly. Fleur smiled, watching Bill lean forward to explain for a moment, before she turned to face her, trying to contain the sheepish grin on her face. Not trusting herself to speak, she lifted an eyebrow and nodded.

"Right," Hermione breathed, a long, slow exhalation. She stared into space for a long moment, her gaze unfocused before she blinked and looked at Fleur. There was a frown creasing her brow but as their eyes met, a small, incredulous smile spread across her face.

"Last time, during the last war," Arthur sighed, "dozens of people were killed. Some cousins of mine." The balding man spoke with old, deep sorrow. "And the worst was, we could never _really_ talk about it."

"For a while it looked like it was going to be better, this time around," Bill continued. "But that didn't last long."

There was a lengthy silence as those assembled digested this information. "We never heard about anything like that," George said. "No one mentioned it."

Bill's mouth drooped. "Of course they didn't. But you had all these _lifelong bachelors_ in the obituaries, didn't you?"

Fleur sighed and leaned forward. "We were, we are, invisible here."

Ginny blinked. "Is it different in France?"

Fleur shrugged. "It is better in France and better again with the Veela."

Harry frowned. "But… but why stay, then?"

Fleur turned to Bill and smiled sadly. "Because I wasn't going to leave my best friend to battle alone." She then turned and faced Harry, seeing the boy she'd known and the man she'd befriended juxtaposed. "And because this was a battle to be fought on many fronts, Harry."

Ron shook his head and an ominous silence fell as he appeared to be gearing up to speak. Fleur realised, belatedly, that her words could be taken as a slight.

"It was hard," Arthur said, softly, attempting to defuse Ron's temper. "Because I'd known people. I lost friends and… and the thought of my boy going through that…"

"It's never something you want to hear about your child," Molly said, her voice leaden.

Bill flinched.

Ron scoffed.

"Well, it seems you had a cushy enough time of it. I mean, what, pretend to marry Fleur and then carry on, like she is?"

Fleur clenched her fist, released it, and took a breath before reaching out to Bill. His jaw moved and he shifted in his seat. To the surprise of all, it was Molly who spoke next.

"Ronald, I know you're upset but there's no need to be like that."

Ron opened his mouth but his mother's eyes swept up, fierce and sparkling. There was a threat there, amid the turmoil and unhappiness, and Ron clamped his teeth shut. She sat up in her seat and wiped her eyes.

"We should leave. Come along."

"What?" Ginny yelped. "No way!"

Bill frowned, disappointment plain. "You don't have to go."

"It might be for the best," Molly said, curtly.

"I'll hang on for a bit, mum," George said, quietly, but with steel behind his soft words. "I can get Ginny home to you, later. If that's all right with Bill and Fleur."

There was little to be said to that and Molly stood stiffly, shuffling out of the sitting room. Ron, scowling mightily, followed hot on her heels. Arthur lingered, embracing Bill.

"Give her time, son."

Three soft pops were audible. Bill sighed and dropped his face into his hands. "She's had time. She's had _years_."

"Yeah," George sighed, "but she's still our mum. Stubborn as a mule and proud as a hippogriff."

"Never mind _that_," Ginny said, eagerly leaning forward. "Now that they're gone, I want the full story. The _real_ one."

Fleur turned to Hermione and was not surprised to see her slumped against the settee cushions, a slightly shell shocked expression on her face.

"Hermione?" she asked, quietly. The brunette blushed, then realised that she was the centre of attention and turned crimson.

"I… I'd really like to hear the full story, too." She frowned. "Up until we arrived in Shell Cottage, anyway," she muttered. Bill shook his head and sighed. George, Ginny and Harry seemed perfectly happy to let Hermione, and the question of why she'd been kissing Fleur, be for the moment and turned polite expressions of interest to Bill instead.

He sighed, running a hand over his scarred face. "Well, you all know where we met."

"Gringott's," George supplied.

Bill smiled wryly. "Yeah, but you never heard _how_ we met."

* * *

><p><strong>July 1995<strong>

Bill turned the page of his copy of the Daily Prophet, idly scanning the articles as he sipped a cup of strong tea. There wasn't much of interest bar a Baxter Thripplefletch concert that weekend and the crossword. He was trying to puzzle out a seven letter word for an annual encyclopaedia when an impatient cough sounded beside him. He looked up, fairly surprised to find himself face to face with a tall blonde girl. She was utterly beautiful, he noted, long silvery hair framing her face. Her skin was flawless and she wore no makeup, save perhaps for a bit of mascara because _no-one_ could have eyelashes like that otherwise. She was sporting an expectant expression and Bill swallowed his tea.

"Um, good morning."

"'Allo," she said, standing up straight. "My name iz Fleur Delacour." Ah. One of the Triwizard champions.

Years of politeness kicked in and he offered his hand. "Bill Weasley. Pleased to meet you." Fleur's hand was warm and soft but her grip was strong. She smiled sunnily at him and nodded, helping herself to a seat.

"Bien. I am to be your new colleague, I zink."

"It would appear so," Bill agreed, a certain spark in the girl's eyes worrying him slightly. What on Earth did she want?

"I weesh to improve my Eenglish. Will you 'elp me?"

Bill choked on a sip of tea.

"Pardon me!" he coughed, spluttering around a mouthful of tea. Fleur was looking at him curiously, a small frown on her face. She rolled her eyes and pulled a hanky out of mid air, offering it to him with a small sigh.

"You were at ze games, no?" she continued, managing to signal a waiter as she did. "I saw you and zought, zere is a most fascinating man. Imagine my delight to find we are to work wiz one anuzzer! Tea, please."

Bill felt like an owl. A red haired, red faced owl. Who was sitting frozen before something large and nasty that ate owls like him for supper.

"I'm not an English teacher," he tried, setting his cup down.

"Bah, I 'ave 'ad my fill of teachers!" she proclaimed, slapping the table in a disconcertingly Gallic manner. "I need a companion! You, monsieur, seem like a most excellent candidate."

Bill's spine went rigid and he tired to pull back slightly. "I… Erm, I think your English is fine, really."

Fleur snorted and eyed him dubiously. "I am ze champion of Beauxbatons and 'ere, I am treated like an empty 'eaded leetle girl. It iz demeaning. I demand your assistance!"

Bill felt a scowl build. "Now, excuse me, but you can't go around making demands of complete strangers! We've only just met."

Fleur flushed a bit and nodded. "I apologise. I am… The truth iz I am lonely since coming to London. Ze goblins are 'orrid to me and… Well, when I saw you in 'Ogwarts, I was very 'appy."

Alarms were sounding in Bill's head. The _last_ thing he needed was a teenaged, female colleague who fancied him. He opened his mouth to protest but Fleur sighed.

"I zought 'finally! Anuzzer one!'."

Bill's thought process slammed to a stop and he blinked. "Another what, exactly?"

Fleur smirked and nodded at the fang dangling from his ear. His blood froze.

She _knew_!

"Why, anuzzer 'omosexual, of course!"

* * *

><p>"In fairness, that was the point," Bill sighed. "An earring or a necklace… I don't know who came up with it but… But it let other people know. A secret code."<p>

Ginny sniggered and Harry tried to hide a smile. Hermione flushed and Fleur lifted an eloquent eyebrow.

"What's so funny?"

"Um," Ginny snorted, "nothing, really! Just, you know…" she dissolved into fits of laughter.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Well… it's just we always presumed 'practicing one's English'…"

"Meant something entirely different?" Bill finished, smirking slightly. "You know, there were times when I wished it meant something else, too."

* * *

><p><strong>August 1995<strong>

"Zis iz ridiculous, Beel," Fleur whined. "I 'ave 'ad my feel of eet!"

Bill folded his arms, the reluctant tutor glaring at his flighty pupil. "This was all your idea. Come along, Fleur."

"Merde…" she sighed, leaning forward melodramatically and peering down at her notebook. She stared at the neatly written words for all of three seconds before whipping her head up. "Let's go to ze Carnation!"

"What?" Bill spluttered. The Green Carnation was a pub tucked down an alley way close to, but not off, Diagon Alley. It catered to witches and wizards who shared their predilections and Bill had never set foot in it. "We can't go there."

"Why ever not?" she sighed. "It iz Friday. We are young, beautiful and single. Why 'ide zis light under a bustle?"

"Bushel," Bill corrected, feeling his cheeks go red. "Fleur, someone might _see_."

"Eef zey do not see you, zey will not be enraptured by your 'andsomeness and so weesh to sleep wiz you."

"Fleur!" he squawked. "Really!"

Fleur stood, her silver hair flying about her shoulders. "Bah! If we are going to seet in like an old married couple, zen what iz ze point of being young at all?"

Bill sighed. "Fleur… I don't… I'm not ready for people to know," he said, quietly. Fleur glanced at him and he saw her make an effort to not roll her bright eyes. "It's _hard_ for me. They… they want me to be perfect and… they won't like this."

Fleur sighed and moved to his side, draping her willowy frame over his back and hugging him tightly. It had startled him at first, her easy affection, but he'd become quite fond of it. It reminded him of Ginny, when she'd still been young enough to ignore the others teasing her about cuddling her big brother. "Your family love you. Zey will not stop."

It was a familiar argument and Bill had no wish to hash it out again. Fleur didn't prod, kissing his hair instead. "But! We are still young and so iz ze night! If we cannot go to the Carnation, we will go to ze muggles!"

* * *

><p>"So we started going out to muggle clubs," Bill said, smiling a small smile. "It was great, you know. Just so… different! I mean, no one knew me."<p>

Fleur nodded, smiling fondly at the memories. "Those were good times."

* * *

><p><strong>October 1995<strong>

"This is hell!" Bill croaked, leaning over his toilet bowl, stomach somewhere between his ears. "Fleur!" he called, pathetically. "Why on Earth did you think sambuca was a good idea!"

Fleur peered into his bathroom, her hair in disarray and eyes bloodshot. "Silence. You seemed to zink it was a fabulous idea, at ze time."

"I'm going to die," he gasped, heaving again. "In a lavatory, with an insane French woman scowling at me."

"You will not die," Fleur snapped, holding a cold cloth to her forehead. "And I am not scowling. Merde… Besides, eef you 'ad not come along and 'ad so much to drink, you would not 'ave kissed that young man."

Bill nodded, momentarily forgetting his plight. He smiled crookedly at Fleur and felt his chest lighten. "Yeah. He's called Dave. He asked to go out tomorrow."

Fleur nodded smartly, but seemed to regret it instantly, if the small groan she issued was anything to judge by. "So you see. You should take my advice in all matters from now on."

Bill blinked. "Fleur… I've never gone out with anyone before. Not properly." He felt his stomach tighten and took a deep breath. "Shit. Shit!"

Fleur shrugged eloquently. "So you 'ave a date. You are not planning on moving in wiz zis Dave, are you?"

Visions from the evening before flooded Bill's mind, chief amongst them Dave's kind brown eyes peering up from behind long eye lashes. The scent of his skin and some sort of muggle cologne. His hands. His quiet laughter and his silly little quiff. He was gorgeous and Bill was quite surprised to find himself on the receiving end of such a lovely creature's attention.

"A date?" he squeaked.

Fleur nodded.

He vomited.

* * *

><p>"Bill had been utterly rubbish," Fleur sighed wryly, "he'd stand in the corner and make eyes at the dance floor. Thankfully, a dose of courage was all he needed!"<p>

"Courage in the form of this sambuca potion?" Ginny prompted.

Bill laughed. "Sambuca is a muggle drink, used to set things on fire, intoxicate people and probably strip paint."

"And you and this Dave bloke…" George asked, blushing slightly. "Er, I mean, did you go out with him?"

Bill closed his eyes, memories painted plainly behind his eyes. "Yeah. For about six months."

* * *

><p><strong>January 1996<strong>

"Billiam!" Dave exclaimed, laughing happily. "You're late!"

"No," Bill laughed, dropping a smart kiss on Dave's lips. "You just started early." He nodded to the empty glass ware on the table and waved to the other inhabitants. They were all muggles, friends of Dave's, there to help the young man celebrate his birthday.

"You remember Fleur?" he asked as he slid in next to his boyfriend, charmed when the shorter man scooted closer to him.

"Bon soir, mon amie!" Dave cooed in atrocious French. Fleur laughed a tinkling laugh and shook her head, eyes shining. She didn't spend much time with muggles and invariably came away charmed. Introductions ensued and the boisterous group celebrated long into the night. Fleur spent her time flirting with a pretty red head, flustering the poor woman dreadfully.

The pub was warm and noisy, the hubbub of conversation flowing all around them. He watched a friend of Dave's balance several bar mats on top of one another, laughing when they toppled down.

It felt magical. This barmy, messy place seemed magical. The table they occupied had long ago lost its varnish and small, sticky puddles of beer sat beneath their glasses. The grain was smoother than silk, more worn on the inside than the edge, from hundreds and thousands of elbows. A particularly boisterous friend banged his glass off the table and a little lake of beer splashed into existence. Almost immediately, another friend whipped the label off his bottle of lager and folded it into a boat, fit to traverse the beer lake.

It was all so silly and daft. Stupid and pointless but he felt that his heart was going to burst in his chest and he wanted to shout from the rooftops; to dance along the streets. He was giddy with pleasure and turned to Dave, who was gazing up at him with a soft, gentle expression.

"Thank you for coming," he said quietly. "I've never had a boyfriend on my birthday before. It's brill."

"You're only saying that because I'm buying you pints," Bill teased, his cheeks warming at the praise. Dave grinned and kissed him softly.

"Don't be mean, Billiam. I'm happy you're here."

"So am I," Bill said, enjoying the intimacy between them for a long moment, closing his eyes as happiness and love suffused him.

* * *

><p>"And it all went really well," Bill sighed. "I felt bad not telling him, of course you would. But in some ways, it didn't matter. We just had so much <em>fun<em> with each other, you know?"

Fleur smiled sadly at him, her eyes soft with sympathy. "Dave was wonderful. He could bring a smile to the most dour face. You would have liked him," she said, turning to the others. "I suspect even Mrs Weasley would have liked him. Eventually."

"But what went wrong?" George asked, gently. "That happened?" Bill turned to him and sighed.

"The war happened."

* * *

><p><strong>April 1996<strong>

"And I said that I'd rather _die_ than be seen wearing one of those silly little hair nets." Dave proclaimed, throwing his hands out as he and Bill wandered a path beside a canal in the local park. It was cold but they were well wrapped against the chill. Ice gripped the brown earth beneath their shoes and their breath steamed before them.

"What are those for, anyway?" Bill asked. "I mean, you've not got much hair to begin with."

"Unlike you," Dave chirped. "Everyone thinks you're some dead butch biker, you know."

Bill laughed, imagining himself attempting to ride a motorcycle. He suspected disaster would follow.

"But I know better," Dave sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets. "You're like an Alsatian, you know."

Bill frowned. "A what?"

"A German Shepherd," he continued, giving Bill a funny look. "My god, which part of Devon did you grow up in, again?"

"The remote bit filled with inbred alcoholics," Bill reminded, "go on."

"Well. They're tough, aren't they? Big tough brutes but when they're around people they know, they're like puppies."

"I am _nothing_ like a puppy," Bill protested.

Dave ignored him, humming to himself instead. "How's Fleur?"

"Oh, she's fine," Bill sighed. "She decided that she wanted to try and make a tart but…"

He trailed off. On the path in front of them stood several figures, some of whom were laughing with one another. They were wearing quite shabby, mismatched clothes and Bill felt fear rise in his chest.

One was fiddling with a wand.

"A tart! Can she cook?" Dave babbled, more than capable of keeping a conversation going by himself. "I mean, she is French but you can never presume."

The men were ignoring them and Bill took a breath. There was no easy way to avoid them; the canal was to the left and a steep bank to the right. If they kept on, they'd soon come to a bridge and a little pub. Bill gripped his wand, hidden in his sleeve, and hoped that Dave would carry on nattering and the group of wizards would ignore them.

What are they doing out in a muggle park?

"But then, she isn't the French stereotype, once you get to know her," Dave continued. "I mean, she's so _lovely_. And her English is improving too. We'll have to find her someone, you know. It's an utter shame she's going to waste, all alone."

Bill hummed, hoping to keep Dave chatting. They were level with the wizards and Bill tried to avoid looking at them. He saw one give a nasty glance from the corner of his eye but they seemed home free.

"That said, I was _entirely_ convinced that she was your hag, you know. I mean-"

Bill felt a shock run down his spine as a rough laugh emanated from the group behind them. "Hag? Little muggle knows a hag, does he?"

Dave stopped dead in his tracks and turned, scowling at the group of wizards. Bill felt a cold sweat break out beneath his warm clothes and reached out, grabbing the other man's elbow.

"Come on, Dave, we're going to be late."

Dave tipped his nose up and made a derisive sound. "I'm sure if I _were_ looking for a hag, a gang of trolls like you would be able to point me in the right direction."

With that, he continued forward suddenly, pulling Bill after him. Bill's heart pounded in his ears and he found his pace, rushing ahead.

"Dave, you've got a bloody big mouth," he hissed.

"I'm not going to let some smelly tramps-"

"Smelly tramps?" a voice called. One of the wizards was standing before them, wand in hand. He was short and wore stained green trousers tucked into battered boots. Dave whipped his head around, apparently trying to decide how the man had gotten in front of them.

"Little muggles shouldn't be so nasty," another voice agreed. Bill gripped Dave and held his breath, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. Apparation was out of the question, muggles tended to fight the pull and get badly splinched.

"Little muggles should know better than to speak so badly to their betters."

"I don't know what a _muggle_ is, but I am absolutely sure that you're in no way superior to me," Dave snapped, clenching his fists. Bill swallowed. His boyfriend had a hot temper and an easily wounded sense of personal dignity. These were not virtues which would be of use to them in the current situation.

"Dave, let's go."

"Let's," Dave sniffed.

"Yeah," another voice called, "run on home, you little shit stains."

"Dave!" Bill hissed, grabbing Dave's arm and tugging. A glance assured him that the other man was furious and quite close to doing something about it. "Not now!"

"Bill, I am _not_ going to let myself be bullied by these troglodytes!"

"Bill?" one laughed. "I thought mine eyes did deceive me. But no, that's Bill fucking Weasley."

A murmur spread through the group and Dave turned a shocked face to Bill's. "You know them?"

"Oh, Billy here was head boy, wasn't he?" one laughed, coming closer. Bill's eyes flicked around them and he realised that there they were five or six in total and that several were drawing wands. He felt the blood drain from his face even as Dave beamed up at him.

"Head boy? You never said!"

"Dave!" Bill hissed, "now is _not_ the time."

"You're right," he sighed, turning to leave. "Let's go, Bill. We've got better things to do than listen to them. Head boy? You should have said something."

Bill's heart was pounding and he stepped backwards, keeping his eyes on the men behind them and a grip on Dave's coat.

_Please. Please just let us go._

"So, this is what blood traitors get up to, is it?" the ringleader laughed. He was wearing a long brown coat and a large hat. Bill felt a flicker of recognition but couldn't put a name to the face.

"Running around with pet muggles, as if they're mates?" another chimed in. "Disgusting."

Dave, _finally_ noticing the whiff of danger, tensed but did not slow his determined steps. The wizard on the path before them laughed.

"Oh, watch out, the little one has a temper!"

"Does he now?" another crooned. "Funny thing about tempers," he smiled and Bill recognised him as a nasty little git called Mervyn Trevelyn. He whipped out his wand and Bill fumbled for his own, his hand tangling in Dave's elbow.

"Is that they need cooling down!"

With a flick and a swish, Bill found himself tumbling through the cold night air beside Dave for several long seconds before both of them were unceremoniously dumped into the freezing canal.

* * *

><p>Bill wiped his face. Ginny, Harry and George wore sympathetic frowns, confusion in their eyes, and he wondered when he'd ever been so innocent. Hermione was pale, anger and fear warring on her face. Fleur frowned, her face darkening with the awful memories. Hermione, noticing the change, swallowed thickly and took the other witch's hand, twining their fingers together.<p>

Despite the awful memories, Bill found himself smiling at the sight.

"So Dave and I went back to mine," he sighed. "It was the little flat over the curry house, you know the one?"

"The one you shared?" George clarified, having visited Bill and Fleur once or twice. Bill nodded.

"It was the first time he'd been over and… well… it could have gone better."

* * *

><p><strong>April 1996<strong>

Bill stumbled through the front door, teeth chattering as he held the door open for Dave. He fumbled as he closed it behind them, staggering up the narrow stairs to the top floor. His flat sat at the end of a row of buildings owned by an Indian wizard named Sighn. It was one of several little corners their world had carved out of muggle London and Bill loved it. He and Fleur lived on the top floor, their bedrooms tucked beneath two adjacent roofs while they shared a tiny kitchen, living room and bathroom on a mezzanine between them.

Dave was trembling with cold and rage as he followed him up the stairs. They eventually made it through their door, Bill fumbling with the locks and keen to get the other man out of his freezing clothes, International Statute of Secrecy be damned. They kicked off their soaking shoes and left their sopping coats in the narrow entrance hall before Bill led Dave through the living room door.

Now, due to the fact that the flat they shared was so tiny, Fleur had felt the need to cast several charms to enlarge the place. There was a three piece sofa in front of an open fire and several book cases scattered about. Bill entered the room and paused, clearing his throat.

Fleur's head popped up from the sofa, red eyes betraying the fact that she'd been sleeping rather than baking. She blinked owlishly at her flat mate for a moment before spying Dave behind him. Her mouth sagged open as Dave rushed past him, shedding his jumper, t-shirt and soaking jeans as he ran for the fire. He knelt before it in his boxers, warming his hands.

"Oh Fleur," he bit, "you are never going to believe what happened!"

Fleur's mouth was opening and closing and she whipped her head around to Bill, eyes blazing. "William!"

"I'm sorry Fleur," Dave muttered, completely misunderstanding her shock. "But I'm fucking _frozen_! This group of utter pricks threw us in the canal!"

Bill had his wand out and was, as unobtrusively as he could, trying to get the pictures lining the room to stay still. Dave was staring into the fire, rubbing his hands together and Fleur rose from the couch, a fearful expression on her face.

"Bill," she hissed, "are you mad!"

"They chucked us in the canal, Fleur! What was I meant to do?" he whispered back, "try to get all the way out to his place? He'll be lucky if he doesn't catch pleurisy! You know how sensitive muggles are to cold!"

Fleur's expression softened. "No more zan wizards, Bill," she sighed. "Get changed. I'll put ze kettle on."

Fleur left to make the tea and Bill cautiously approached Dave, kneeling beside him and stripping his own wet top off.

"You've got a fire," Dave murmured, staring into the flames. "A real, honest to goodness fire in the middle of London. How? Aren't they banned?"

Bill swallowed thickly and shrugged, casting his mind back into the depths of NEWT muggle studies for something to say. "Uh, smokeless fuel?"

Dave lifted a dubious eyebrow but said nothing. He leaned his damp head against Bill and sighed. Fleur entered with a tray and set it down on the coffee table before lifting a blanket to cover Bill and Dave's cold forms.

"It's not fair," Dave whispered a moment later, "we weren't doing anything to them."

"No, we weren't."

"And they just shoved us in. How on earth can you treat another human being so poorly?"

_Because you're a muggle. And because You-Know-Who's gaining power and all the nastiest insects are crawling out of the woodwork._

"Why do they hate us?" he asked in a small voice, sounding lost and young.

Fleur knelt beside them, tea in hand. Her face was solemn and she seemed so different then, her natural beauty strange and forbidding without her native cheer.

"Because zey need to 'ate someone," she said, her eyes meeting Bill's over the top of Dave's head.

In his heart, Bill knew that things were going to change. The happiness he'd gathered shattered within his heart and he felt tears build.

_It's not fair at all._

* * *

><p>Bill was quiet for a long time, taking a sip of cold tea to wet his throat. His family was quiet as they absorbed his story, shaking their heads or biting their lips. Fleur felt her heart clench at the memories his story provoked. When the silence between them all began to stretch, she sighed and spoke.<p>

"Dave was badly shaken, which thankfully prevented him from noticing too many things about the flat. After he and Bill went to bed, I did my best to muggle proof the place. But I don't know much about the muggle world, certainly not as much as Bill does, so it wasn't perfect. And Dave wasn't stupid."

"He had so many questions." Bill sighed. He laid his face in his hands and sighed explosively. "And I couldn't answer him."

He couldn't bear to go on. Fleur knew he hated opening this wound, seeing the worst parts of himself again. How selfishly he'd acted. How he'd endangered someone he cared for just because he was too cowardly to face the ridicule of his own community.

"I ended it." He said, baldly. "I couldn't lie to him and I couldn't risk him getting hurt for being seen with me."

George's eyes were full of sympathy and Ginny's tears. Harry was wiping his glasses on his jumper, a small frown on his forehead.

"I mean, what kind of bloke puts an innocent person at risk, just because he can't step into the Green fucking Carnation?" he bit, old resentment and self hatred rising to pour from him. He frowned and clenched his jaw, unable or unwilling to continue. Fleur sighed.

"So we stopped going to muggle clubs and pubs. It wasn't fair on them, or us, perhaps." Hermione's hand was warm in hers and she settled against the back of the settee, their shoulders brushing minutely. She took comfort from the warmth and sighed.

"Eventually, we went to the Carnation," she sighed, bittersweet memories crowding her mind. "It wasn't the best of times, but it wasn't the worst. We met incredible people there. Brave people. Philander Lovegood being one of the bravest and best."

Bill nodded, a sad smile on his face as he remembered their friend. "Philander had spent time with muggles too and he was an idealist… He wanted to start an organisation, to unite us all and maybe make our cause known. Safety in numbers and all."

"Lovegood?" Harry said, "is he a relation of Luna's?"

Fleur sighed and felt a frown crease her brow.

"He was. He was murdered about eighteen months ago."

Everyone gasped, but herself and Bill. "We… it was strange. Myself and Bill wanted nothing more than a social outlet, somewhere to meet people like ourselves. Young people, preferably. But we found that most of the people of our age were fled, or had hidden themselves."

"Philander's group was varied, when it first started," Bill said, sadly. "Young, old. Men, women… Everyone. But after You-Know-Who came back," he said, peering at Harry, "people started leaving. A few entered into marriages of convenience."

"Is that why you two got engaged?" Ginny asked, apparently smelling the answer to a question she'd often asked.

"Well, not entirely," Bill said, chuckling sadly. "To start with, it was a stupid joke Fred made."

George blinked. "Merlin's beard!" He wiped his face with his hand. "We went to visit and saw that you two had your own rooms… He, Fred, reckoned the only way that was going to work was if you were both _saving yourselves for the wedding_."

Bill chuckled and Fleur rolled her eyes. "Well, it was a stupid joke but it was an easy way to divert suspicion. Ten sickles for an announcement in the Prophet? Small price to pay." Bill sighed. "Simpler than getting married, anyway."

"We treated it as a joke, something to amuse ourselves in dark times," Fleur said, leaning her head against the back of the settee. "If we'd realised how bad things were going to get…"

"Did mum and dad know?" Ginny asked, frowning. "Because whatever about winding the lot of _us_ up…"

"They did," Bill sighed, running his hand through his hair. "After what happened with Dave and with going to the Carnation, spending time with Philander… Couldn't lie to them anymore."

"Bet that went down like a ton of bricks," George mused. Bill nodded, but said nothing. Fleur remembered holding him with almost painful clarity, still remembered his tears wetting her shoulder and the hollow sound of his sobs; the way he'd shaken beneath her hands. Still remembered his confusion and pain; his feeling that he'd lost his family. She recalled her anger, too, at the things Molly had said to him. At how she'd asked him to not tell his siblings, ostensibly for their safety but really for her own sense of decorum. At the way she'd made her own son feel like a criminal for merely telling the truth.

"As you saw, she's still not happy with it. Dad… dad's fine but…"

"But he loves mum," Ginny sighed, "and he's trying to not fight with her." Bill nodded and the little room was quiet for a long moment, taking all that in. Thinking back to prior times and fitting this new information. Ginny flushed a bit and Fleur couldn't help but feel a touch guilty. She'd had a bit _too_ fun much teasing Ginny, swanning about the Weasley household like the 'orrible French bitch they expected her to be. After all, they'd thought it was only a temporary ruse; only a matter of time before the rest of the Weasleys were let in on the joke too.

How wrong they'd been.

"Everyone started to leave," Bill continued. "Like I said, the first to go were those who were young, no attachments. They could just pack a bag and vanish. The older ones, the ones with kids, they stayed. Most of them had survived the last war, they reckoned it'd be the same." He drew a deep breath, sorrow rattling in his chest. "It wasn't. People were beaten in the streets. The Carnation was burnt to the ground. Homes were attacked. And then, to top it all off, it started to become difficult to leave the country."

Hermione let a small sound of pain escape her and Fleur turned to her, seeing fear and the sorrow on her face. Part of her was glad that her lover had been ignorant of the horrors that had befallen innocent people, given what horrors she had witnessed during her own trials.

"The Order helped, as much as it could. Bill and I were able to use parts of Gringott's for untraceable port key transportation. Philander and other members of the Order constructed the keys and we'd sneak people into the blank places in Gringott's."

Harry frowned. "Blank places?"

"Places where the spells that track efferent magical travel break down. The goblins have most of their vaults below London but they still have plenty of minor caches around the country." Bill explained. "The best way to keep them safe is to keep them hidden."

"We were able to bribe a wizard guard to let us in," Fleur sighed. "And we sent people to my uncle's vineyard. There, they were able to flee throughout Europe and sometimes further afield."

"It worked for months," Bill continued. "Until a bit after the Christmas before last. The Ministry told the goblins that if they wanted to continue their business, they'd disable the blank places for travel outside Britain. The goblins didn't care, they could just go to a sister branch in Europe if they needed, but it meant _we_ were buggered."

Bill sighed and settled his face in his hands. "They knew, somehow, what we were doing. We didn't know the blank places had been shut down and were going about our business as normal when a gang of fucking thugs jumped us."

There was a long moment of silence, the listeners almost afraid for Bill to continue. He lifted soft eyes to Fleur and sighed.

"Philander, Fleur and myself took the rearguard. The others managed to escape but…"

Fleur sighed. "Philander was killed."

"And I froze," Bill whispered. "And Fleur ended up with a lump of wood the size of my arm in her guts."

Harry, George and Ginny gasped, focusing round eyes to Fleur. But she ignored them, turning instead to Hermione, whose cheeks were wet with tears. Trembling, the other witch curled a hand into the crook of her elbow, leaning their shoulders together. Fleur closed her eyes, soaking up the warmth and sympathy, before turning back to the others.

"We made it back to Grimmauld place and, thank Merlin, Dumbledore and Snape were able to come quickly. They saved my life." She fell silent, never fond of revisiting those long, hurtful days or the panic and fear that had permeated her life.

"It was touch and go, for days." Bill said, his voice low and hoarse. "We couldn't go to Mungo's, there was a bulletin out for a woman with injuries to the gut. Fleur… she almost died." He lifted teary eyes, clearly as fond of the memory as Fleur herself was.

"When I awoke, my mother and father were there. They begged me to come home or to go to my grandmother. But I refused. I would not abandon my friends. I would not abandon the Order."

"That was the worst, for me," Bill said, through clenched teeth. "Because even though they were there to patch us up, I knew why the Order hadn't helped. Hadn't _really_ done all they could. Left it up to individual members to decide what to do."

"Why?" Harry asked, his voice low in the tense room.

Bill's hands curled into fists and when he spoke, his voice was rough with the wolf's growl.

"Because sometimes the bravest people can't bear to stand up for themselves."

* * *

><p>12 Grimmauld Place had always been, in Bill's opinion, a miserable kip. It was soaked in old, dark and menacing magic. With Sirius gone, the last bit of cheer had fled, leaving nothing but shadows, cobwebs and the smell of must and mould. It creaked, day and night, moaning in its foundations as if the suffering it had witnessed still echoed within its rooms.<p>

Bill was curled in an armchair in the sitting room, staring blankly ahead. A clock ticked on the mantle piece, a squat mahogany monstrosity that refused to take a polish despite his mother's best efforts. The grate was cold and dark, soot arced out before it after harsh winds several days before. Twin gas lamps hissed behind grimy leaded glass and he was gripped with the urge to shatter them. To destroy them and the great bevelled mirror in the gilded frame where his own eyes stared back, accusatory and hard.

His best friend lay high above him, better than she had been but still struggling to recover from the dreadful wounds she'd sustained. He could remember it all so clearly. The flashes of green light. The shouts and panicked screams of those around him. Fleur sending loose leafs of paper to cover the mouths of their pursuers after Philander had fallen, silencing their most potent weapon.

Seeing one wrench a jagged lump of timber from a broken palate and, with a flick of his wand, send it careening into Fleur's abdomen.

He covered his ears and screwed his eyes shut against the memory. The scent of blood had jarred him back into action and he'd brought them to safety, taking Philander's open-eyed corpse with them. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached and still the images came. Blood splattering onto dusty floor boards as he called for help. The portrait screaming. Fleur's eyes wide and incredulous against her chalky skin. Blood staining her elegant hands as she'd clutched her abdomen. Snape's face, never more welcome, appearing from the darkness around them.

"So this is where you are," a quiet voice called. Bill did not raise his face, unable to meet the sparkling blue eyes of his former headmaster. Unable to bear the shame of his cowardice.

"I must say, it is not a cheerful place to tarry," Dumbledore said. Bill could hear the cough of newly conjured flames in the grate, feel their warmth. "Have you been to see Miss Delacour yet?"

Bill lifted his face at that, swallowing thickly. He shook his head and Dumbledore nodded.

"She is doing well, I'm pleased to say. She's even begun to grow restless," he said, a smile in his voice. "I've taken the liberty of providing her with some reading material which should keep her occupied whilst she recuperates."

"Ha-" Bill croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Has she asked for me?"

Dumbledore peered at him with his twinkling, knowing eyes and nodded. "She has indeed. Though it is hardly surprising that a young woman would inquire after her fiancé."

Something jagged rose in Bill's throat and he felt so annoyed with himself that he wanted nothing more than to vanish from the old man's piercing gaze. To strike the walls with his hands until they bled.

"It was only a stupid joke," Bill spat. "Fred was having a laugh and… and we thought that all those bloody toads at the ministry would leave her be…"

"They are attempting to deport her."

Bill nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Perhaps she would be wise to return to her home," Dumbledore said, sadly. "As awful as the last few days have been, this is nothing more than a skirmish before battle."

Bill's heart pounded in his chest and all the anger and frustration he'd been smothered with surfaced, sensing an outlet. "A skirmish? Fleur almost died! Philander _did_ die!"

"And if he had not acted, so would a dozen others," Dumbledore finished, peering over the rim of his spectacles. "He was a courageous man, to the end."

Both were silent for a long moment, each staring into the flames of the open hearth. Dumbledore had summoned coal and already it threw out enough heat to break the chill of the room.

"I was a bloody coward," Bill said, quietly. "I hung around with muggles because I was too scared to admit what I am to our world. I almost got someone I cared for hurt. I was a coward in the alley, slinking around in the shadows like a prowler. And Fleur was almost _killed_."

He leapt to his feet, pacing the moth eaten rug that lay before the fire. "I mean, all that cloak and dagger nonsense! Wasting Order cash bribing a guard when we should have been able to use the floo network! When they shouldn't have had to leave in the first place!"

Silence fell again, Bill breathing harshly. "I should go out right now. Get those of us that are still here together and march to the fucking Ministry! We shouldn't have to put up with being treated like vermin, just for who we are!"

Dumbledore peered at him for a long moment before he sighed. "Spoken like a man with nothing to lose."

"Philander was right," Bill continued, ignoring the condescension in the other wizard's voice. "We should stand up for ourselves. No one else bloody will, after all."

"As you mentioned, Philander is tragically no longer with us."

Bill felt a hand grip his heart and he drew a shaking breath. "Then I'll do it."

A large piece of coal shattered in the hearth, shards leaping out onto the battered rug. The smell of scorched wool filled his nose and Dumbledore moved his buckled shoe to cover one of the glowing spots, preventing any further combustion. When Bill met his eyes, they were as hard as ice under a winter dawn and his courage wavered.

"You may feel as if you have nothing left, Mr Weasley, but I assure you that you do. What of your family? Do you not think that the forces arrayed against us would relish the opportunity to strike against them? There are laws being drafted, William, that would make a criminal of you. Make criminals of any who help you."

Bill's heart froze. "Then we need to move, stop them before it's too late."

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "And sign your ticket to Azkaban? What about Fleur? Or those you've helped? Think!" he snapped, leaning forward. "They did not issue a warrant for the arrest of Fleur Delacour, merely a bulletin warning of a woman with certain injuries. For now, you're both safe. But if you _do_ get arrested, do you think they'll waste the chance to pour veritaserum down your throat? Or to rip the knowledge from your mind?"

Bill shook his head, his heart pounding. "Why? Why _chase_ us?"

"Because they can," Dumbledore said, softly. His eyes still blazed and he drew a long breath. "They will hunt you. As they will hunt the muggle borns. And the squibs. And the blood traitors. And the agitators. And the Order."

"There won't be anyone left, then," Bill said, his voice unsteady. "They'll have arrested everyone."

"Not everyone," the old man sighed, "but enough of us to make our world a miserable place. You have done good work, William. Because of the efforts from the Carnation, dozens of families are safely fled. But this battle is over. You are free, of course, to throw your life and freedom away but I urge you to reconsider. The battle is over but the war remains. The Order needs you, William. And Fleur."

Something in the way the old wizard spoke nudged Bill's sense of curiosity but he was too shocked, too annoyed, to really listen to his intuition. "What kind of a world are we fighting for?"

"We're fighting for the _chance_ of a world," he said, softly. "For all of us."

Bill squeezed his eyes shut, anger burning in his chest. "You don't understand! You don't know what it's like to have to lie everyday! In word and by omission and in deed!"

Dumbledore peered at him, with those eerie and wise eyes and Bill saw something there, an old and ancient pain that robbed the strength from his legs. He staggered backwards, sinking awkwardly into his armchair, feeling his mouth hanging open as understanding struck.

"You?" he breathed, barely able to speak.

The headmaster sighed and closed his eyes, his silence speaking more than any gilded words or artful prose. Bill blinked, tears gathering.

The silence then was tense and thick, filling the room and Bill's lungs, drowning his mind as ten thousand thoughts fluttered through his mind. His heart pounded and he shook his head.

"When I was in Hogwarts," he said, voicing a thought for the first time in his life, "I thought I was the only one. I didn't think there was anyone else like me in the world. I didn't even have a _name_ for it until I was fifteen. I thought I was a freak!" He stood again, turning his back to the other wizard, drawing deep, panting breaths.

"Do you know what a difference it would have made?" he asked, his voice small and broken. "If I'd known that there others like me? Even _one_ other like me?"

Dumbledore was silent, not even breathing audibly.

"You…" he choked. "We… we're meant to be brave. Gryffindors and all? I thought… I know I was a coward but I'm trying. I'm doing my best to be brave."

He turned slowly, his vision blurred by tears.

"And all it would have taken was a _word_ from you."

Dumbledore lifted his face and for the first time, Bill thought that he looked old. Ancient and weary. "William. I realised very long ago that often, the bravest of us are willing to fight for everyone but ourselves. Is that cowardice? Perhaps. It is always easier to ask for something on another's behalf."

Bill wiped his face on his sleeve, frowning against the burning behind his eyes.

"We must choose our battles wisely," he sighed. "And there are many battles to come. Think long and hard about what you shall do. An opportunity exists already, regarding yourself and Miss Delacour."

Bill snorted. "That was just a stupid joke. Which has gone on for far too long."

Dumbledore stood, slowly. He moved as though he was in pain and Bill almost moved to help him, stepping forward before catching himself. Who was he, to offer assistance to the most powerful wizard in Britain?

"Did you expect more of me?" Dumbledore said, uncharacteristic bitterness to his voice. "I once did, too. But these are dark times and we must do what we can, for the greater good."

"I expected you to be brave," Bill said, quietly. "To be better than the fear."

As the wizard moved to leave, Bill closed his eyes again.

"It would have made a difference to so _many_ of us."

* * *

><p>Hermione blinked, swallowing against a lump in her throat. Tears stung her eyes and she lifted a hand to her mouth. Harry's face was crumpled in grief and Ginny and George bore expressions of shock.<p>

"Grindlewald," she said, quietly, after a long silence. All eyes turned to her and she flushed. "From what was mentioned in Rita Skeeter's book, they were friends. She… she never comes out and _says_ it but she implies that they were very close."

Bill blinked with surprise and turned to Fleur, the pair staring at one another for a long time.

"I suppose," Bill sighed. "We never spoke of it again. I never really spoke to _him_ again." He hung his head, shame on his face. "I presumed he'd always be around, you know?"

He tipped his head back. "After he died, it was shit, frankly. I mean, if _Dumbledore_ can't be brave enough to come out, what hope is there for me?"

Another silence stretched between them all until Hermione spoke again. "The reading material, did it consist of Lily's diaries?"

Fleur nodded. "They did an excellent job of distracting me, in truth." She rubbed her face. "Maman and papa begged me to leave. They even offered to take Bill," she said, a smile crossing her face. "When they heard how he'd rescued me from the alley, they practically adopted him."

Bill chuckled sadly. "Yeah. I still think they got the wrong end of _that_ stick. You were the one who saved my skin."

Fleur waved a hand, weariness in her bright eyes. "Things became more serious, then. We sat with both of our parents and spoke of the future. There was pressure on me to leave, being a foreigner and, worse still, a daughter of the Veela. Thank goodness those ministry imbeciles didn't know I'm gay or else they might have launched me from a cannon!"

Ginny snorted at that and Hermione glanced at her. "Our twat of a brother first and foremost, probably."

Fleur shrugged. "There were several lower level peons who pestered me, but he didn't. We never intended to follow through, to actually get married but…"

"Greyback's attack," Harry said, his face grim and pale. "When you spoke to Mrs Weasley."

Fleur nodded and Hermione drew a deep breath, feeling slightly light headed. The blonde witch leaned forward and Hermione could see nothing but the sorrow written into every line of her frame.

"I wanted to stay so badly and then I knew…" She shook her head, fixing Harry with her full attention.

"I will never, ever forget the moment that I realised that Cedric was dead, Harry," she said softly. Ginny took his hand and pressed into his side, offering what comfort she could. "I knew, when I saw him, that the war had begun anew and it would be fought on this island. Victor realised the same. I approached Dumbledore and joined the Order of the Phoenix." There she looked up at Bill with a wry smile.

"And as time passed, the desire to fight strengthened. I was no longer merely doing the right thing, I was fighting alongside my friends. By the point of Bill's attack, I would have done _anything_ to stay. To protect the people I loved here and to prevent the spread of that evil. We never thought things could move so quickly, though. I mean, we were barely married before we had to go into hiding anyway," she sighed. "I don't know if it was really worth it."

"Maybe it wasn't," Bill sighed. "But we're both still here, in one piece, and we were able to be of some small help. So I think it was."

Hermione sat forward, frowning. "You were more than a small help! You… when we arrived at Shell Cottage after so long living in a tent…" She flushed, embarrassed to have spoken so freely in front of the others. She ducked her head but felt Fleur's gentle hand on her back. She turned to face her was almost overwhelmed by the urge to throw her arms around her. Bill too, for that matter. What horrible suffering!

Harry coughed into his fist. "Hermione's right. We'd been miserable for so long and when we got here… It was incredible. I mean, we hadn't had a hot meal in ages."

At that, Harry's stomach grumbled and a short round of laughter rippled through the assembled Weasleys.

"That's right," Bill chuckled. "I promised dinner, didn't I?" He stood, wobbling on coltish legs and Hermione didn't think she'd ever seen someone who so embodied the idea of a weight lifted. He stretched and though he still bore the shadows of the more sorrowful parts of his tale, he appeared younger and his scars seemed less prominent. "Come on, I could do with a hand."

"The salad is ready," Fleur piped, though she made no move to stand up. Neither did Hermione and she was pathetically grateful when none of her friends mentioned it. Ginny, however, did send a wry glance her way and Harry did smile in a vaguely bemused manner.

They shuffled out, their voices raising as the left the tension of the little room behind, laughing and generally making noise as the relief that permeated Bill seeped through to the others.

Fleur's hand was warm on her back and Hermione sighed. She then turned and threw her arms around Fleur's waist, clutching the other witch as tightly as she could. Fleur let out a little breath of surprise before returning the embrace, wrapping herself around Hermione.

"That was most emphatically _not_ how I planned this evening proceeding," she whispered and Hermione laughed.

"Really?" she said, her voice shrill to her own ears. "Well, thank goodness for that!"

Fleur, apparently concerned by her harsh words, made to pull back. Hermione was having none of it and tightened her grip, burying her face in the other woman's neck. "I can't believe you almost died." She inhaled deeply, pressing herself against the proof of life before her, Fleur's warm skin and scent. "I can't believe you had to go through all that. I can't believe you never told me."

Fleur sighed. "How could I? After Bill was attacked, after Dumbledore died, everything changed. I stayed but Bill and I swore to one another… We promised each other that if we entered into this thing, that we would do it properly. If we were to hide in plain sight, we wouldn't gamble it all."

Hermione was quiet for a moment, taking that in. "That's what Bill meant," she mused. It truly hadn't just been about him and Fleur. If either of them had been caught and interrogated, how many lives would have been at risk? How many of those whom they'd tried to help had still been in Britain, in hiding?

"Fleur," Bill said, poking his head in the door. "Urm, sorry, but do we have more tomatoes?"

Fleur lifted her head and drew her wand in one smooth movement. The door closed itself smartly, hopefully not injuring Bill _too_ badly, before the lock clicked shut.

"I am _sick_ of interruptions," she muttered darkly. Hermione couldn't help but laugh at that. Secured against intrusion, Fleur leaned against the back of the settee, bringing Hermione with her. They settled beside another and Hermione found herself with her head tucked under Fleur's chin, their legs folded beneath themselves. Each breath that Fleur took lifted her head and Hermione let herself be lulled for several long moments as she tried to sort her erratic, jumbled thoughts.

One jumped out, however, and she swallowed thickly. "Fleur," she asked, softly, "you really are gay? I did hear that right?" She desperately needed to have heard that right.

Fleur chuckled and nodded. "I am. I am lucky enough to be Sapphically inclined."

Hermione looked up so quickly that she bumped her head off Fleur's chin, earning a short yelp.

"As in Sappho? Do witches know her too?"

Fleur was blinking, rubbing her chin and appeared slightly discombobulated. "Ah, she _was_ a witch." She frowned. "After all you've heard, _that_ is what you wish to speak about?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it sheepishly. "Well. It's a place to start, isn't it?"

Fleur rolled her eyes and pulled her back against her. "You know, never mind. This conversation was never going to be the most conventional anyway."

"What," Hermione said wryly, blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes, "you mean it's not usual to have half of magical Britain walk in on you kissing another woman?"

"Only in certain dubious circles," Fleur replied. "I'm sorry. That was the worst possible way that you could have heard the truth."

"It wasn't your fault," she replied, closing her eyes. What a _disaster_! She exhaled, bringing her hand to Fleur's elbow, running her fingers over the soft skin there, letting her mind drift for a moment.

She had so many questions but no idea where to start. She felt utterly adrift and would have loved some clue as to where to begin. Random thoughts sleeted through her mind and several times, she felt almost ready to begin before she stopped herself.

_Something to be said for optimism, though, after all._

She couldn't argue with that thought and decided to plough straight in.

"So you and Bill… I mean… does he have someone?"

Fleur sighed. "No. We never came out and said it, but what was the point in going to all the bother of proceeding with the wedding only to be spotted out with someone? It was too risky."

"But I wasn't?" Hermione said, running her thumb over the fine blonde hairs on Fleur's arm. "I must have been the _last_ person… what with following Harry to the source itself."

"That was what scared Bill so much. He knew that the chances of you being captured were enormous. But her eventually realised that the risks were outweighed, Hermione." Fleur tightened her grip, her voice somewhat muffled by her hair. "You must know how precious you are. To so many people. We were ready to flee. We brought Luna and Dean to Muriel's, soon after you left, to make sure they were somewhere safe."

So it hadn't just been Fleur who'd risked it all on her behalf, then. She felt humbled and unsure of what to say, of how to feel.

"And the spell…"

Fleur heaved a sigh. "The spell. Yes."

"You lied about it only happening once," Hermione stated, fairly confidently. "During the Battle, you slipped up. You said we couldn't have a repeat performance because it wasn't the time or place. I didn't realise it at the time."

"You seem to have done a lot of thinking in Australia," Fleur said, clearly impressed. She was quiet for a long moment and Hermione enjoyed their closeness, basking in the affection so readily offered. "I slipped up more than once, actually. When I said that it could only happen once, in the parlour, I thought you'd realised what I meant."

Hermione frowned and thought for a long moment. "The first time between the two of us? I don't know."

Fleur took a deep sigh. "The first time, in general."

Hermione blinked, feeling her eyes pop open. A flush covered her face and she sat up, glaring unhappily at Fleur.

"Was it _that_ bloody obvious?"

Fleur, absolutely uncharacteristically, blushed herself and cleared her throat. "Not you."

Hermione felt her jaw gape open and she sat back on her heels, before slumping forward. "You're joking."

Fleur rolled her eyes and folded her arms. "I wish I were!" She unfolded her arms and rubbed her face.

Hermione had no idea how to respond to the information provided and opened and closed her mouth several times. "But… but… you actually knew what you were doing!"

Fleur's face, ears and neck were crimson by that stage and she peered out from between her fingers. "Hermione. This is an excruciatingly embarrassing conversation to be involved in."

_Tell me about it._

"You and I… reciprocated. That is not always the case. For me, it had never been the case."

Hermione shook her head, slightly dazed. Fleur cleared her throat and seemed as though she was about to close the conversation.

"But, I mean, what an out dated concept!" she said, shaking her head. "I didn't think anyone cared about… that anymore."

Fleur sighed. "Maybe not in this part of the world or in this day and age but I called on ancient powers that night, Hermione. To them, it was an offering of great value. They haven't quite caught up with the times, it seems." Fleur took another deep breath and faced her fully, eyes gentle. "And it had great value to me. It meant so much to me."

Hermione pressed her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool her face. Fleur shook her head, her blush finally fading.

"So it _can't_ happen again," Hermione mused. "But something similar could."

Fleur let out a very undignified squawk and flopped backwards, her blush back in full force. Hermione found herself intrigued but realised that there was little point in pursuing that particular line of questioning at that moment in time. She reached out and pulled Fleur forward, smiling apologetically.

"I'm sorry. I'm all over the place. I apologise for this insight into how my mind works."

Fleur laughed softly and ran her thumbs over the back of Hermione's hands. They were still for a moment before Hermione spoke again.

"That's why you were so upset that evening, in the parlour. The one thing you could have said to change the way I thought about you and the one thing you could have said to get me to agree were the same bloody thing."

Fleur nodded. "At that stage, it was either laugh or cry and, well, I didn't feel very much like laughing."

Hermione shook her head. "God, it all makes sense now."

Fleur nodded sadly. "I still don't know if I did the right thing, you know. I should have told you. It all seems so stupid now, all these secrets and lies and nonsense." She swallowed. "But it was different then. We didn't seem to have a hope in hell but… but I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

Hermione sat entranced as Fleur raised her hands, cradling her face. "I dreamt that you died. That Bellatrix killed you. I couldn't bear the thought." She swallowed. "I was desperate. I can make no excuses for my actions. But I beg your forgiveness."

She frowned, caught by miserable, lonesome blue eyes and sighed, lifting her own hands to Fleur's face. "I'll forgive you if you promise me something."

She was utterly amazed to hear Fleur's breath stutter, to see her turn to her touch. To respond to her so sweetly. "Anything," she whispered.

Hermione leaned forward, placing her forehead against Fleur's. "Promise me that we won't have any more secrets. That we'll just talk next time."

"Next time?" Fleur muttered, her gaze falling to Hermione's lips.

"You know what I mean."

"I promise," Fleur sighed. "I swear on my name and my honour. I won't keep any secrets from you, Hermione."

"Thank you," she breathed. "And though I'm likely going to be annoyed with you for some time, I do forgive you."

"You can be as annoyed as you wish," Fleur chuckled. "But I'd like a chance to make it up to you. To fix what I've broken."

Hermione sighed and kissed her cheek. After a long moment, she drew back, lingering and marvelling at the notion that she could now do this without dissolving into paroxysms of guilt. "You haven't broken anything. Lightly bruised, at worst."

Fleur laughed softly and embraced her warmly and deeply. She drew Hermione over her, running a hand across her back. Shivers ran up and down her spine and it was with great relief that Hermione settled her cheek on Fleur's chest. A gentle hand ran between her shoulder blades, tickling her lightly. It was incredibly soothing and she sighed, letting her own hand linger on Fleur's side.

"You know," she sighed, "I had all sorts of theories about what you were giving up. I realised that it was a sacrifice but…"

"I don't feel as if I gave anything up," Fleur confessed softly. "I feel as though I was blessed."

Hermione smiled at that, her mind still buzzing from topic to topic. "In the interest of honesty, I have to confess something." Fleur hummed politely. "I overheard you and Bill talking, during the wake. I was using a short cut." She closed her eyes, the memory still possessing the power to sting her. "When you promised to stay with him."

Fleur sighed in exasperation. "He overheard me speaking with Gabriela Senka and _he_ misunderstood her offer of counsel as an offer to run away with the Veela. He has decided to take up Philander Lovegood's cause, you see. He was asking for my help."

Hermione felt like an utter fool. She squeezed her eyes shut, half wanting to smack her forehead in dismay and half wanting to scream. "He wasn't the only one who misunderstood."

Fleur was quiet for a long moment. "We spoke of love, too."

Hermione nodded, her breath caught in her throat.

"Bill realised, perhaps even before I did, the truth. I've…" Fleur sighed. "I've never been the best with letting people become close to me, unless on my own terms. And you… You took me by complete surprise. I remembered Ginny's friend, a slightly sullen girl who disliked me."

Hermione grunted and stilled her hand. "I wasn't that bad."

"Not as bad as Ginny," Fleur agreed. "At least, I never heard you refer to me as Phlegm."

Hermione spluttered and tried to lift her head. Fleur merely laughed. "Please, it doesn't matter. I was insufferable back then. I wasn't thrilled about having to guard Harry at the Burrow and help build its wards, believe me, and I acted childishly."

Hermione shook her head. "You and Bill were there to look after him. Not so you could get to know your future in-laws." She closed her eyes again. Fleur was fiddling with her hair now and she found it incredibly comforting. She soaked up the base, animal sense of contentedness and felt her breathing slow.

"The next thing I know, this same girl appears on my doorstep, now grown and filled with sorrow. Horribly injured. I… I meant what I said. My heart was cracked with sympathy when you arrived, but you filled it so quickly. Every corner of me."

Hermione was quiet for a long time then, her heart pounding again. She shifted on the couch, finding herself curled even more snugly against Fleur.

"I don't know how to feel, right now," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Fleur murmured above her. "After all you've been through, all I put you through, as long as you don't hate me, I'll be happy."

"Well, I certainly don't hate you," she said. "I… it's a lot to take in. I mean, it had crossed my mind, you know, that you might be attracted to women."

Fleur snorted. Hermione felt her mouth twitch up into a smile.

"But," she continued, "I never thought there could be anything between us, after that night. I came here today expecting, really, to have my questions answered and to say good bye. To draw a line under everything that happened and move on."

Fleur's hand stilled and she moved, shifting until she was looking into Hermione's eyes. Her gaze was steady but filled with aching, profound sadness.

"Is that what you want?" She ran a thumb over her cheek and sighed. "Because you were right, after the funeral. Everything was on my terms. You trusted me and I betrayed that…"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know if you did. I mean, you said you'd tell me, when everything was back to normal, and you have. If I hadn't run off after the Battle…" She sighed. "And I trusted you to not hurt me." Her throat tightened and she frowned.

"And I did hurt. I hurt more than I _ever_ have done. I felt so stupid and pathetic," Fleur's eyes were filling with tears and Hermione shook her head. "And I feel even more stupid now, knowing that if we'd just sat and talked…"

"I'm so sorry," Fleur said, her voice rough.

"It's all right," Hermione said, quietly. "I see why… It wouldn't have been fair to Bill to out him, after you'd promised not to."

"It wasn't fair to _you_," Fleur insisted.

Hermione shrugged. "Or you. There was a lot that wasn't fair back then. And he was trying to protect innocent people, Fleur. Both of you were."

"It all seems so pointless, now," Fleur whispered.

She nodded. "Because Harry won. But what if he hadn't? We couldn't hope things would turn out so well."

Fleur still seemed miserable. "I'm so sorry."

Hermione sighed, slightly exasperated and gazed down at her friend. They were pressed together, whispering into the same patch of warm air. Fleur was leaning against the arm of the settee and seemed young and fragile, reminiscent of a night long ago.

It would have been more fitting to have this chat in the study, she thought.

"I'm sorry," Fleur repeated.

"Then make it up to me," Hermione suggested, surprising herself somewhat. Fleur, evidently, was quite surprised too. "Or we can make it up to each other. I don't know."

The smile that graced Fleur's face was radiant, like the sun rising after a cloudless night. It spread slowly but surely, chasing the morning frost and bringing life and hope back to darkened ground. And Hermione's breath caught in her throat, sure that her heart was about to seize within her chest, for she'd never seen seen anything more beautiful. She'd never seen Fleur more beautiful.

Gracefully, with more strength than Hermione would have thought she possessed, Fleur sat up, cradling her face with care. The sun was brighter as it shone through the windows; the booming surf and crying birds more joyous. The air was warm and deeply perfumed; the laughs of their friends free and easy. The world was a better place, then, a more hopeful and kinder place.

She felt herself answer in kind, her cheeks aching as she grinned. And Fleur seemed to shine ever more brightly, her eyes and hair glorious. Her touch was delicate but sure, conveying reverence and fondness; affection and delight. Hermione felt both humbled and uplifted. Precious and bold.

And above all else, she felt loved.

* * *

><p>Dear Reader,<p>

Still here? Good for you. I told you it was a long chapter. I'd really, really like to know what people think. Were you expecting Bill's news? Did you guess? Did I handle it well? All thoughts, comments, arrows and death threats gladly accepted.

EDIT: Well. Did it help? Hopefully, it did. Onwards!


	17. A Thousand Kisses Deep 1 of 2

Dear Reader,

Well. It has been a while and I apologise for dropping off the face of the internet. I'm sorry about that, I honestly am. To everyone who's read this far, and to everyone who's dropped a message, thank you! You are all, every one of you, fantastic. Your reviews and pms have meant a lot to me and if I deeply appreciate them.

I edited the previous chapter. There were parts I wasn't happy with so I changed them. I'm not fond of doing that, but it needed it. I reckon reading down from the poem would be a good idea, before you start this chapter.

Right! Enough chat. On with the show!

* * *

><p><strong>September 1995<strong>

The early autumn air was redolent with the scent of cut silage, soft earth and fresh water. Honeysuckle dangled from the bough of a stately chestnut, trailing in a lazily meandering river. Insects flitted through the air and birds sang, a fine accompaniment to the canopy of willow leaves whispering above a witch and a wizard. They were shielded from the world, from care, lazing in a little corner of paradise in Hertfordshire.

They'd taken leave of the city for an afternoon, apparating with a picnic basket to a quiet little copse cradled by a great loop of river. Bill leaned back on his elbows, trousers rolled up above his knees and pale chest bare as he bathed in the sun. Fleur was sprawled on her front, one cheek resting upon crossed arms.

"Tell me, Beel," she mumbled sleepily, "'ow would your perfect man be like?"

"What would he be like, do you mean?" he chuckled. He took a deep breath, smiling at the notion. "Well, he'd be tall, taller than me. But not too big, you know? My age or a bit older, perhaps. Tanned. Dark hair."

"With a 'uge-"

"Fleur!"

"sense of 'umour?" she smirked.

Bill laughed, kicking his heel against the dry ground. "Yeah. He'd have to be, to put up with the company I keep. He'd be dashing, a bit cheeky… But very kind. Sexy, too." He lay down on his back, closing his eyes and delighting in the tickle of grass beneath his shoulder blades. "How about you? What's the future Mrs Delacour like?"

Fleur was quiet for a long time, uncharacteristically so. Bill opened an eye and was surprised to see sorrow creasing his friend's face. She was normally so feckless, so blithe, that it shocked him a bit to see such utterly unfamiliar grief.

"I thought I knew. I thought she would be beautiful and confident. I thought she would be funny and kind." She sighed, opening her eyes, her focus somewhere far away in time and space.

"She was beautiful, and very confident. But she was not kind."

Bill frowned, sadness overtaking him. "Fleur…"

"I apologise. Forget about zis. It eez, 'ow you say, ancient 'istory." She rolled onto her back and sat up. "I 'ave not seen her since I left France. I 'ave not even thought about her in a long time."

"Well, she was clearly a fool," Bill said, firmly. "I bet you'd be a brilliant girlfriend."

Fleur laughed, a bit sadly. "I am not so sure. Besides," she said, sitting up, turning her gaze out over the water. "Who needs it? Why chase impossible dreams when you can 'ave lovers for a night, 'ere and zere. Love… It eez only a fairy tale, Beel. And I am too old for such things."

Bill smiled, though he was a bit sad to hear such a cynical sentiment from his cheerful friend.

"You know, I used to think the same thing," he mused, "but sometimes it's better to listen to a happy story than all the grim shit that happens in real life. I mean, I never thought I'd meet a loopy, daft, fabulous French fairy god… sister."

Fleur barked out a laugh. "I am not sure if there eez an insult…"

"Several, but all well-intended," he reassured. "But come on, don't be such a sourpuss on such a beautiful day. You're the one who's always saying we're young and should be living life to its fullest."

"Yes, I do appreciate that today, we play one anuzzer's roles."

Bill grinned. "Well, that's what mates do, Fleur. If your friend is in a crap mood, you pull them out of it. And they do the same for you, when you need it."

They were silent for a moment, Fleur continuing to stare out over the water and the golden wheat fields beyond. The summer had been glorious; dry and hot. They'd spent long days at the beach and drinking cider with friends in London parks. They'd laughed and sat up until the small hours of the night, fixing each and every one of the world's ills. But it was almost time to harvest the wheat. Almost time for night to fall earlier upon each day.

She sighed. She was dreading another dreary British winter but found herself reluctant to return home. There was, after all, much work to be done upon these grey shores. There were more important things to occupy ones mind than old ghosts, she reminded herself. There was a whole new world out there, waiting for her. After a long, contemplative moment, she smiled.

"She weel be cheerful. Be full of joie de vivre. Maybe an athlete. Gentle and genteel. 'opefully a runway model. Exquisite taste in clothes."

Bill laughed and Fleur found herself giggling along with him.

"With huge-"

"Beel!"

"Boobs!"

They both dissolved into howls of laughter, rolling over the soft grass. Several song birds took umbrage and flight, in that order. Eventually, they settled down, Fleur hiccoughing with mirth.

"Well," Bill said, wiping his eyes, "here's to my tall, dark and handsome hunk and here's to your busty model!"

* * *

><p>Hermione ran her fingers up and down Fleur's arm, following the lines of bone and muscle absently. The other witch's skin was warm under her touch and she felt her eyes drooping, lulled by her presence. Fleur had resumed gently scratching her back, movements soft and comforting.<p>

"We'd better move," she muttered. "We can't hide in here all day."

"We could," Fleur reassured her. "We can even apparate away somewhere else, if you wish."

Hermione felt a smile tug her lips and chuckled. "No, we can't. Aren't you hungry?"

"I'm happy here."

They were quiet for a long moment, gently embraced, drawing strength from each other's presence. After a while, Fleur began to hum and Hermione felt herself smile at the familiar tune.

"You'll put me to sleep," she chided.

"Are you tired?" Fleur asked, gentle amusement in her voice. "Where did you wake up this morning?"

"Um… In a train station in France. I think."

"I thought the Floo network has been repaired?"

"It has," Hermione said, yawning. "But one of the Way Houses was having problems. It was quicker to just hop on a train. Slightly better value, too."

Fleur was quiet for a long while and Hermione let her mind wander. The revelations of prior hours, of secrets and truths, weighed heavily on her mind, complementing the physical weariness of travel. She could feel exhaustion starting to nip at her limbs and sat up, shaking her head to wake herself. Fleur peered up at her, a touch rumpled and perhaps a bit sleepy, too. Hermione found herself smiling at the sight, charmed by the intimacy of seeing the other woman appear so unselfconscious.

"I'm going to fall asleep on top of you," she warned, stretching. Behind the shock of revelation, though, sat excitement. A giddy feeling threatening to spill out of her chest, most likely via her throat, and for the first time in a very long time, saw no reason for self censorship.

Fleur lifted an eyebrow and rolled her shoulders. "Summer days are meant for long naps."

"Not when there's a house full of people…" her stomach clenched and she swallowed thickly. "Waiting to speak to me…" There, she mused, was the reason for self censorship. Excitement melted to anxiety, leaving an oily sensation in its wake.

Fleur sat up beside her, taking her hand and quietly calling her name.

"I don't know what to say," she murmured, drawing a deep breath. "I mean… They're going to ask, aren't they?"

"You don't have to tell them anything."

"They're my friends. I mean, they've…" she swallowed. "I want to tell them but… I don't know what to tell them."

Fleur wrapped a friendly arm around her shoulders and squeezed. "Then if they ask, tell them you need time. They love you. They'll wait."

It was so simple and yet so true. It was quite bizarre, how rapidly simple truths spread now once the big lies had been torn down. Simple, small truths that were fundamentally important, like a kind of emotional codon.

Hermione lifted her eyes, meeting Fleur's gaze and felt herself frown in consternation. "I don't have _any_ answers, Fleur. Not even for you."

Fleur laughed softly and tipped her head to one side. "I can wait, too."

Hermione flushed at that, though she managed a wobbly smile.

Fleur drew a breath, appearing slightly nervous. She drew away, putting some space between them as she faced Hermione more fully. "You know how I feel about you, Hermione. I… I care for you. Deeply. I want to be part of your life, in whatever capacity you decide best."

Hermione frowned. "I don't…"

"You don't have to decide this minute!" Fleur squeaked, colour high on her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm not good at this…" She cleared her throat. Hermione was relieved that for all her native confidence, Fleur appeared just as nervous as she felt. "I just want you to know. You have my friendship and affection already."

_And love._

But it was too bright a day, too ordinary a day, to say such things. It was too horrible to recall the circumstances under which those words had first been uttered. Too intimidating to once again face that mania or summon the precipice over which they'd flung themselves in desperation. They were, after all, building foundations with simple truths, first.

So Hermione just nodded. She took a deep breath and exhaled, trying her best to pull her jangled nerves into some semblance of order.

"Maybe we should head out to the others," she suggested, needing a bit of space, some room to sort through the information she'd received.

The smile on Fleur's face was bittersweet, though perhaps a bit more sweet, as she stood. She offered her hand and Hermione gladly took it, standing beside the other witch, feeling every bit as wobbly as Bill had looked. She kept a grip of Fleur's hand and, summoning her courage again, embraced her briefly.

"You do, too, you know," she whispered.

Fleur nodded into the crook of her neck, understanding her meaning.

A quick wave of a wand unlocked the door and Hermione frowned again, though this time in puzzlement.

"What did your grandmother mean, Fleur, about her being thanked for her hair?"

Fleur frowned. "I've been trying to determine that, myself." She sighed. "In truth, I understand about half of what Gra-mere says."

"Do I owe her a debt?" Hermione asked.

"No," Fleur assured her. "I was the one who asked so if anyone owes something, it is me."

Hermione paused, her hand on the door knob. "You've given up so _much_, Fleur. On my behalf."

Fleur stood beside her, smiling crookedly. "Gifts gladly given. I have lost nothing."

Hermione lifted a dubious eyebrow. "Your hair?"

"Will grow back," Fleur said, firmly. "Now, please. You and I, we won't speak of debts and obligation and such nonsense."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest and Fleur cupped her cheek, placing her thumb over her lips.

"We do things for those about whom we care, Hermione," she said, her voice low and slightly uneven. "What does Harry owe you for your support during the war?"

She blinked. She inhaled deeply, feeling slightly woozy. It was very difficult to think clearly with the other woman so close. Her efforts were nothing short of heroic.

"So, you owe me nothing, either. I would like to be with you, Hermione, but not to fulfill some duty you think you may have."

She moved her thumb over her bottom lip and it was so intimate a touch, tinged with such melancholic longing, that Hermione found herself wishing that they were truly alone. Fleur let her hand drop to her side, shrugging one shoulder.

"Be with me because you enjoy my company, if indeed you do," she said. "Because you think I'd make a decent girlfriend. Or we can take a step back, try to be friends, if you think it would be for the best. We've all suffered enough and it's time to find some happiness in life, in whatever manner we may."

Hermione drew a breath and nodded, not trusting herself to reply to that.

"Dinner?" she stammered. Fleur nodded and they wandered through to the kitchen.

* * *

><p>"Oi," Bill called, waving a bottle of beer at them, "we've just put the burgers on. Got some nice chops going, too."<p>

"I keep telling him you can't barbecue lamb chops," Ginny groused, petulantly waving her wand at a salad that was tossing itself above a large wooden bowl.

"Surely it's no different from grilling them," Harry pointed out, slicing crusty bread and piling it in an overly fancy basket. Fleur frowned. Where on earth had that monstrosity come from?

"Tastier," Bill stated, peering at the sizzling meat. "You have to watch the bones, though."

George stifled a snicker, though Fleur had no idea why, and offered her a bottle of beer. She accepted it and went to find a glass, handing one to Hermione as well.

"Will it be ready soon?" she asked. "I'm starving."

"Why, what were you doing to build an appetite?" Ginny asked, eyes twinkling. Hermione choked behind her and Harry looked appalled.

"Now listen," Bill said, firmly, "none of that. I just came out and I do not want to have to listen to gossip about women, right?"

"Yeah," George agreed. "Now that you don't have to pretend to be interested in girls any more!"

Fleur sniffed and adopted her most arch tone. "I'm sure," she said, glaring at Bill in what she was sure was the world's most transparent attempt at diversion, "that you never had to feign interest in your friends or sister, hmm?"

Hermione laughed and Fleur glanced over, as subtly as she could. The other witch was blushing but didn't appear terribly embarrassed.

"The most shocking thing," Ginny commented, sending the salad into its bowl, "is the fact that we're going to have a divorcee in the family. Hasn't been one of them since Great Grand Uncle Mortimor."

Fleur took a seat at the table, Hermione sitting beside Harry and Ginny on the opposite bench. She smiled as Harry, without missing a beat, slung his arm over Hermione's shoulder. The other witch laughed and leaned against her friend, jostling him gently.

"Yeah," Bill chuckled as he took his own seat beside her, "funny thing about that… Why bother going through a divorce when you can get an annulment?"

George, Hermione, Harry and Ginny blinked owlishly, looking between herself and Bill. She raised an eyebrow at them, fixing her gaze on Hermione.

"Come now, in light of what you've heard today, do you really think this marriage was consummated?"

Hermione bit her lip, shaking her head and blushing. Harry, after a moment of frantic thought, began to laugh. George and Ginny joined in and before long, they were all howling with laughter at the table. The burgers sizzled and spat on the grill, turning themselves as their chef doubled over.

"Seriously," he chortled, "it was bad enough sharing a room when you lot landed."

Fleur took some offense at that and folded her arms, though her belly was aching from laughing. "At least I always put my clothes away and never left hair in the sink."

"No, but you-" Fleur clamped a hand over his mouth, adopting her most stern expression. She felt him giggling underneath her palm and scowled as best she could.

"Bill, the burgers are burning."

Bill lifted his eyebrows, eyes light with mirth. Fleur relented, her heart gladdened to see the taint of years of fear and secrecy lifting, even if it was at her expense. She released him and he stood, wisely keeping his mouth shut.

Ginny shook her head, clearly amused. "You're acting more like a married couple now than ever."

"Well," Bill said, having evidently discovered that the burgers were not, in fact, burning, "it's easier to be all of yourself, not just a bit. I mean, I haven't been _myself_ around you all in years." He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the fragrant summer air and scent of cooking. "And it's bloody brilliant!"

Ginny and George's faces wore matching expressions of regret, despite Bill's antics, though it was George who broke the silence.

"Did we ever, you know, make you feel like you couldn't be yourself? Couldn't tell us?" He swallowed thickly. "Did Fred and me ever take it too far?"

Bill shook his head, his joy dimming at the memory of his lost brother. "No, no you didn't. But when your own mum tells you not to say anything…" he sighed. "Makes you feel ashamed… You start hiding from everyone."

He sat, clasping his hands. Fleur nodded. "It becomes a habit. You expect the worst from people," she sighed. "Even people you know will love you regardless."

Ginny leaned forward. "When did you tell your parents, Fleur?"

She took a sip of beer. Hermione seemed highly curious about this, too.

"In the summer before my last year of school. I was going to spend time with the Veela and I was only home for one night," she winced, still quite embarrassed by the memory. "It was not the bravest thing to do. But they've since told me they knew anyway. Or suspected."

"How?" Ginny continued, frowning. "I mean, you don't seem…"

"Gay?" Fleur said, smiling wryly. "Is there some way I should be? Some manner in which I should act?" She waved a hand. "That is a discussion for another time, I think. They suspected and, given where my mother grew up, she was aware of the fact that some women prefer the company of their own sex."

"Your mum's Veela, isn't she?" George asked.

"She's a daughter of the tribe, yes," Fleur confirmed. "She left when she was a teenager, to train with an ally in France, and met my father. They fell in love and he wasn't allowed to follow her back to the tribe so they settled together."

The little group mulled over that for a moment, while Bill went to fetch the burgers.

"Well," Harry said, after a stretch of silence and burger assembly, "it's good that you both told us. An honour, really. So thanks."

"Yeah," Ginny agreed. "About bloody time. I mean, if we'd known, I'd never have set Crookshanks loose on your wedding dress."

Fleur almost dropped her burger. "That was _intentional_?!"

Ginny grimaced. "I may or may not have tried to feed him Puking Pastilles, too."

Fleur blinked. "Are you mad?! Hair is one thing but cat vomit!"

"Oi," Bill muttered, "trying to eat…"

Ginny frowned. "I don't see why you're getting so upset. It was a fake wedding."

"Yes," Fleur snapped, "but it wasn't a fake dress! It cost two months wages!"

George winced. "Ouch. You had to pay for your own fake wedding dress? Bill, you're no gentleman."

Bill lifted an eyebrow. "I had to pay for the booze, so shut it."

Ginny slapped a hand on the table. "Oh! Does that mean you two have to give back all your presents, too?"

The table descended into a rowdy, loud and tumultuous mess. Fleur found herself laughing and flicking a piece of lettuce at George. Her gaze caught Hermione's and she smiled fondly, watching the other witch answer in kind. Though she'd been very quiet so far, and was still blushing slightly, she was laughing and beginning to join in with the banter.

_This,_ she thought, _is how it's really meant to be. No secrets or sorrow. Not any more._

* * *

><p>After eating far too much food, the impromptu party fragmented slightly in order to prepare for the next round. Hermione found herself bringing left over food and scraps into the kitchen, packing some into a small bag to be taken back to the Burrow for Molly's hens.<p>

"So, you're heading home with Harry, then?" Bill asked entering the kitchen with a stack of plates in hand. Hermione nodded and leaned against the dresser, folding her arms. Bill smiled wryly and she felt herself return the expression, sensing that he needed to speak.

"Can I apologise?" he asked without preamble, his voice soft but uncharacteristically rushed. "Can I beg forgiveness for keeping her from you when you needed her so badly?"

Hermione was surprised and she was sure it showed. "Bill, please. Don't feel you need to apologise for that. It wasn't your fault."

"It was me who asked her, Hermione," he said, his mouth drawn into a thin line. "And I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping all those secrets."

"You did it to protect people," Hermione reminded him. "People who were incredibly vulnerable."

Bill sighed. "And myself. My bloody cowardly self." He sat down, his hands folded loosely together.

"When I met Fleur, I'd never even said _I'm gay_ aloud. I'd thought it but I hadn't even been able to say the words to another person. She swept in, completely bombastic and utterly feckless, and changed my world over night."

Hermione sat as well, close to him. He smiled up at her, his eyes teary, half from humour and half from remorse. "For the first time, I was able to be myself. To act like _me_. It was almost too good to be true, you know? She has this habit of just ploughing through the world, dragging everyone after her."

She felt her mouth twitch with a smile. "Doesn't she?"

Bill laughed. "She was the brave one. She was the one who wasn't going to let the opinions of bigots change the way she lived. She coaxed me out of my shell and life was so good for a while, Hermione." He smiled. "We had so much fun! And I fell in love."

He sighed again. "But she never did. She'd flirt and bat her eyelashes and occasionally vanish off for a snog but she never found anyone, Hermione. She didn't open her heart. Not until you." He wiped his face with his hands. "And then I begged her not to. I held her to a vow she'd made under _very_ different circumstances because I was scared. Scared for her. For you. For those we'd helped."

Hermione opened her mouth, but Bill spoke firmly.

"But most of all, scared for myself. Scared that I'd lose my family and friends. Scared that I'd be made an example of." He shook his head.

"I thought it was infatuation, you know? That you two had come together in awful circumstances and were just reacting to that. Which is, I know, not fair. And then when Fleur proposed her plan," he shrugged helplessly, "it just brought it to a head."

Hermione frowned, not agreeing with most of what Bill had said but possessing enough wit to allow him to speak. She reached out and took his hand, relieved when he gripped it gratefully.

"I mean, to me, Fleur's as queer as they come. It took me a long time to be convinced about the wedding because I never thought we could pass, you know? That we could convince people we're straight. Interested in each other." His mouth twitched upwards in a smile. "I mean, does no one have eyes?"

"You love each other, though," Hermione pointed out. "That's what people saw. That's what convinced them."

Bill grunted. "And they never, not once, considered that it's possible to be fond of someone of the opposite gender, to share friendship and love, without wanting to shag them? That there are people out there who aren't going to want to play out the usual fairy tale?" He blew out a frustrated breath. "That merry bands of gays do, in fact, prance through the world despite their best efforts to pretend otherwise?"

Hermione was quiet for a long while, pondering that before she replied. "If people are wholly ignorant of something, or in denial, they won't see it. Not even when it's in front of their noses. The idea never enters into their head." She nudged his knee. "I never saw it. I never for a moment thought you were gay."

Bill tried to hide a smirk. "That may have been due to you being distracted by a certain Miss Delacour."

She had to laugh, and agree. "In fairness, it did cross my mind that she might be attracted to women, you know."

Bill had a good laugh at that, shaking his head. He stared down at his boots for a moment before fixing her firmly with his calm gaze.

"_We_, our existence, never enters into their head," Bill sighed. "I thought if you and Fleur were together, you'd realise. You'd see that she only had eyes for you. That what you and her had was real and true."

He took another breath. "And then you'd go out, fight this war… Maybe be captured. They'd come after Fleur…" He swallowed. "It sounds noble now, mentioning all the people we helped but at the time, all I could think of was the pair of us."

"And yet you still told me," Hermione cleared her throat. "More or less. When it came down to it, you didn't stand in our way. In fact, if you hadn't spoken to me in the kitchen. I never would have..." she trailed off, a bit embarrassed.

Bill snorted, bouncing Hermione's hand. "Yeah, well. I was able to be a little bit brave, for once in my life."

They were quiet for a long moment and Hermione wondered how they'd been able to sit undisturbed for so long. The little kitchen was quiet, only the far off murmur of rowdy conversation breaking the silence.

Bill sighed once more, though he didn't sound quite so morose anymore. "I know I don't deserve it, but I need to apologise. I need you to know how sorry, how dreadfully sorry, I am."

"It's all right, Bill," she assured him. "We all made bad decisions. None of us can look back and not see things we wouldn't gladly change."

He shrugged. "I became one of the people I hate. And I was still too cowardly afterwards. When it was all over. We should have talked there and then, exhaustion be damned."

Hermione shook her head. "You'd just lost Fred. We were all… Emotions were running so high. It was all too raw."

Bill seemed quite reluctant to accept that so she squeezed his hand firmly. He lifted his eyebrows and shook his head. "OK, I suppose that's all true… But now, it just feels like cowardice."

Hermione sighed with exasperation, leaning forward and embracing her friend. His arms engulfed her after a few moments, clinging desperately. "It's all right. If you need it, you have my forgiveness."

He drew in a shaky breath and Hermione's heart clenched for him. "You're something else, you know? I'm glad that Fleur met someone like you."

Hermione felt herself blush. "Well, I'm glad I got to know her, too. And I'm glad she has a friend like you."

Bill patted her back and drew away, a wobbly smile on his face. "I know you must be annoyed with her, and that you two have a lot to work through, but give her a chance. I reckon you won't regret it."

She stared down at her toes, contemplative. She still didn't really know what the best thing to do was. Part of her wanted to run, screaming, while another (larger) part wanted to fling itself into Fleur's arms and finish what they'd started in the kitchen. The largest part, however, craved time to sort everything out in her head. She stood up and nodded at Bill, pleased to see him smiling freely again.

"You made a bit of a Freudian slip, you know." She said, gently teasing. "You were annoyed at yourself for not being able to come out and say something."

Bill blinked. "I was?"

Hermione nodded. "It's strange. If it had been anyone but me in the middle of everything, I'd have figured it out a lot sooner."

Bill stood and shook his head. "Well, you are an incredibly bright witch, Hermione. But we all get our heads stuck up our backsides every now and again."

With that, they exited the cottage and rejoined the crowd, both feeling a good deal more at peace than they had for a long time.

* * *

><p>Harry stretched and scratched his chin idly, apparently lost in thought. He noticed Fleur's attention and smiled, his bright eyes slightly sleepy with food and the late summer heat.<p>

"You know, that shaving kit you got me really is something else."

She nodded. "You were beginning to look a bit scruffy, you know. A decent razor is a man's best friend."

He chuckled. "Well, it's certainly keeping me neat." He was quiet for a moment. "How are things, anyway? I haven't seen you or Bill in weeks. Is it true you quit your job in Gringott's?"

"It is. I was made a much better offer and accepted," she felt a lop-sided grin tug her mouth. "In Hogwarts, actually."

Harry blinked. "Please tell me you're not the new Defence teacher."

She laughed at that and shook her head. "No, no. I'm acting as an envoy to the Veela."

Harry nodded, apparently up to date on affairs in his alma mater. "More arrived last week, you know. Families and everything."

"So I heard. I suspect I shall be kept busy." She took a sip of beer. "What about you, Harry? How are you getting on? How go things with Skeeter?"

Harry's lip curled in disgust and he rolled his eyes.

"You know, I never thought one person could be so unpleasant but somehow…" Fleur sighed. She knew a large part of Skeeter's anger was down to the fact that she was unable to transform into her animagus form for another couple of months, thanks to the efforts of Gabriela Senka. She felt more than a bit responsible for that.

"You know what she's like," Harry sighed, "from the tournament. Only now, it's ramped up because she's trying to find sneaky ways to get past Xenophilus."

Fleur shook her head. She'd been incredibly surprised when, during a Weasley family dinner, Ron had let slip that Harry was working with Rita Skeeter on an account of the war. At the time, he'd offered a poor excuse about the devil you know being best. She'd told him, privately, about Senka's spell though hadn't elaborated on the reason it had been cast. It said something about the acerbic woman's personality that Harry hadn't questioned why anyone would do such a thing.

The one saving grace in the horrible situation was that Xenophilus Lovegood, in an effort to repay some perceived wrongdoing, was acting as Publisher in Chief and Editor. Anything Skeeter wished to put into print had to be vetted by him and, unsurprisingly, he was extremely protective of Harry.

Surprisingly, however, was his insistence on fact checking and verification. Fleur had assumed, from reading the Quibbler, that Lovegood considered such concepts outside the realm of his concern. So far, he'd been very strict with the journalist, which pleased all who heard about it.

"I reckon she's working harder than she's ever had to, you know," he said, with a shrug. "I only see the drafts after Xeno corrects them, anyway. But it's good, you know. There's a lot there I didn't know," he said, grudgingly.

Fleur was quiet for a moment, nodding. "Still, you're putting yourself in an unenviable position, Harry."

"She threatened Hermione," he said, simply. "She was going to go after her, about her parents." He sighed. "And given what we've heard today, she likely would have found the figurative muck racking gold mine if she'd started digging around."

Fleur grimaced. "Indeed." She sighed. "I really wish this had happened differently today. She shouldn't have been the impetus for Bill and I to tell the truth."

Harry blushed a bit. "Well, it was a bit of a surprise, to be honest." He smiled gently. "But then, walking in on your best friend snogging _anyone_ usually is."

Fleur laughed, glancing over to the kitchen door. "She and Bill are talking. He has a lot he wishes to say to her."

Harry nodded, fiddling with the label on his bottle. "Well, I have a lot I want to ask her, but I think it can wait for a bit."

She smiled at the young man before her, feeling a rush of fondness. "You're a good friend, Harry. And whatever happens, she'll need those in the coming times."

He nodded, a bit sadly. "I'll talk to Ron. I think he's just gutted, you know?"

Fleur felt her heart clench in her chest. She said nothing, though, picking at the peeling paint on the table. It would be so much easier, she mused, for Hermione to be with Ron. Male, pure-blooded Ron who was one of the heroes of Hogwarts. The whole world would fawn over such a fairy tale, she thought with some bitterness.

Harry reached out and patted her arm.

"But you know, it's not about him, is it? It's about Hermione."

She lifted her eyes, feeling a bit teary, and forced a wobbly smile onto her face.

"It is. What's best for her."

Harry grinned, his eyes bright and knowing. "Yeah. But she's very good at figuring that out for herself. And she always does the right thing."

The back door opened and Bill and Hermione emerged, laughing with one another. Bill headed for the table but Ginny swooped in on Hermione, tugging her away.

Harry appeared to be a bit worried.

"Do you think I should go save her?"

Bill laughed, easing in beside Fleur. "You know, I think she'll be all right."

* * *

><p>"So," Ginny laughed, punching Hermione gently on the arm, "you and Fleur, eh?"<p>

Hermione shrugged and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Ginny was about as subtle as a bull in a china shop and was going to have to do better than that is she wished to inveigle details.

"Hermione Granger, do _not_ play coy with me!" Ginny squealed. "I just walked in on you snogging the witch formerly known as Phlegm!"

Hermione chortled at that, letting Ginny lead her past the gardens, to the little wall surrounding the cottage. They took a seat, facing the sea and sky.

"She knows about that, you know," Hermione chided.

Ginny grunted. "Damn. Whoops. Well, in fairness, she was bloody awful when she stayed in the Burrow that time. Why," she asked, turning curious eyes on her, "did you fancy her back then?"

Hermione took a breath, giving the question due consideration. This had been another thing she'd thought a lot about in Australia, though she hadn't come to any firm conclusions.

"I knew she was beautiful, Gin, anyone with eyes could see that. But she seemed… I don't know, aloof. Shallow." She felt somewhat traitorous for uttering such a thought aloud, but knew that there was no benefit to denial.

"George is speculating that, in order to stand being stuck in close quarters with our family, she may have been sampling mushrooms from the bottom field."

Hermione let out an unintentional sound of outrage at that, feeling her eyebrows shoot into her hair line.

Ginny grinned, betraying no hint of contrition.

Hermione deflated. It would explain a _lot_.

"Anyway," Ginny continued shrewdly, "I remember. If you fancied anyone back then, it was Tonks."

She felt her face flare with a blush. She cleared her throat. "I admired her, yes. She…" her heart was saddened by the memory of happier times. "She was…"

Ginny slung an arm around her shoulders. It was too soon, really, to talk about their lost friends in such a manner. She may indeed have had a crush on Tonks but it was impossible to objectively recall such things in light of all that had since passed.

"Yeah, she was."

They were silent for a long moment before Hermione spoke again.

"Fleur's beautiful, but she's more than that. When we arrived here, she looked after us. She cared for us," she said, feeling a smile stretch her cheeks of its own volition. "She was practically a different person."

"I suppose almost dying will do that to a person," Ginny said, sadly. "To both her and Bill."

The surf hissed and the gulls called on the warm air. Hermione swallowed thickly, having not had time to consider that. It was true, though. The Fleur she'd known had almost bled to death on the dark, grimy floor of Grimmauld Place. The thought, and the visions that accompanied it, were almost too much to stomach. She squeezed her eyes closed, recalling happier times instead.

Playing football on the beach. Casting charms with her brand new wand. Curling together before the barrier and sharing secrets. The night on the sand.

Fleur in Hogwarts, living on the grounds. Visiting her for tea. Showing her the best parts of the castle and ground. Waking beside her and not having to run off and save the world. For the first time, these fleeting and unintended thoughts did not hurt. Optimism had seemed impossible and she herself naive for entertaining such notions. Imagining a future had opened a raw wound anew, each and every time.

Perhaps it didn't have to, any more. Maybe it was time to allow herself some hope and begin to look forward to her future.

"She's so kind, Gin," she began, shyly. "And warm. And she's far more intelligent than she lets on. She built wards here the like of which I've never seen and she's a really good healer."

"Yeah," Ginny mused. "I saw that at the Battle. Where'd she learn that?"

"The Veela. Gringott's."

Ginny sighed. "So. She's gorgeous. She's smart. She's going to be properly single. And possibly a madly well-paid healer. What are you waiting for?"

Hermione blushed and worried her lip. That was a good question with an excellent answer. She had no desire to delve into what had transpired that night on the beach but found herself tired of keeping secrets.

"We… we knew, back here, that there was something between us," she said, carefully. "Fleur couldn't tell me about her and Bill so… So things were strained. We hurt each other."

Ginny clucked her tongue, squeezing Hermione's shoulder. "Oh pet, everyone's been hurt this last while. But maybe she's one of the ones that might help you heal."

Hermione let out a quiet laugh at that. "Perhaps…"

"I mean," Ginny sighed, "are you…?"

She bit her lip again. That was the thousand galleon question, wasn't it?

"I don't know, Gin. I'm… It's a big question, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I suppose," Ginny said, voice gentle. "So maybe answer some smaller ones first, eh? I mean, do you fancy her?"

_Yes. A most emphatic yes._

Ginny smirked knowingly, shaking her head. "Well, right. Do you want to go out with her?"

Hermione frowned, that one was not quite as easy to answer. Fear, longing and trepidation were all mixed together and she could only shrug helplessly. She _wanted_ to, but she also wanted to avoid any more heartache. She wasn't sure these desires would be mutually exclusive.

"Fine, that was a hard one," Ginny sighed. "Well, how about you give it a go? I mean, what's the worst that could happen?" She hopped off the wall and brushed the seat of her trousers.

"I mean, we've _seen_ the worst that can happen," Ginny said, plainly. "And we've pulled through. Don't let a chance pass by, Hermione. You never know how long you'll have, after all."

Ginny stepped forward, embracing her fondly, as she had often done before. She was strong and sure beneath her hands and Hermione felt pitifully grateful for her friend.

"Thanks Gin," she whispered into fiery hair. "I'm glad you..." she couldn't quite speak around the lump in her throat, so she squeezed her eyes shut instead.

"And I'm glad we've got you back from bloody Oz."

They drew apart, laughing softly.

"Come on, let's get back to the rest of the lunatics, eh?"

Hermione took a deep breath of the warm summer air.

"You go ahead. I need a moment to think."

"Sure thing," Ginny agreed. "We'll send word when desert's ready."

Hermione nodded and watched Ginny go, smiling fondly after her friend. She felt a bit nervy about the teasing but it was no different than any other teasing Ginny had heaped on her. She turned her attention back to the sea, marvelling at the ease with which at least one of her friends had accepted the news.

Well, not that were was actually much news from her, compared to Fleur and Bill, she mused wryly.

* * *

><p>Dear Reader,<p>

Well, compared to some of the others, that wasn't too long. The next chapter will be the last and I will post it as soon as possible!


	18. A Thousand Kisses Deep 2 of 2

Dear Reader,

Well. I did say as soon as possible! This is the final chapter. Get stuck in!

* * *

><p>A gull called and a lark replied, the latter sounding quite annoyed about being disturbed. Hermione closed her eyes, glad to be back home. Or at least to somewhere approximating home. She tipped her head back and welcomed the gentle sun warming her face. How strange to think that it was the same light that scorched the desert half a world away. How mundane the world here appeared, after such adventures.<p>

She smiled at that thought. Though the barriers were gone, the remnants of magic still clung to the grass around Shell Cottage. They'd been raised with good intentions and dismissed after a job well done, so perhaps it wasn't odd to still perceive faint traces of their presence. For all its outward ordinariness, the cottage was located on quite an enchanted stretch of coast and had been for as magical folk called Shell Cottage home.

Her mind drifted, then, to the memory of a dream. She remembered the weight of Fleur's daughter in her arms and wondered at the significance. Had her own mind thrown out a last minute, desperate illusion in order to convince herself to proceed? It seemed likely, now. She had, after all, wanted Fleur very much. It was a bit disappointing to realise that her heart was willing to be so sneaky but she supposed that was par for the course.

_People find ways to convince themselves of the veracity, the legitimacy, of their desires all the time. Why would I be any different?_

She kicked her heels against the wall. She knew she needed to leave, and soon. She needed time and space to think about what she wanted. About the future. She'd spent so much time preparing for heart break and a bitter farewell that she now found herself at a loose end. Once again, she had to figure out what to do when the world kept spinning.

She lifted an empty snail shell from the wall, turning it over in her hands as she mulled various thoughts. She wanted to return to Hogwarts and earn her NEWTs. That was definite. She wanted to move into Grimmauld Place with Harry because firstly, she had no other place to go and secondly, she yearned to spend time with her friends. She'd missed Harry and Ron while she was away, though she suspected Ron wouldn't be speaking to her for quite some time.

Well. That wasn't the end of the world. Ron had stopped speaking to her _loads_ of times. If they could still be friends after the bloody locket, they could be friends after this. She knew he was angry, and she supposed he had an honest claim to it, but she also knew he was a decent person. Even were he inclined to stay annoyed with her for the rest of his life, he needed to wrap his head around Bill's news. As stubborn as he could be, he was not one to let his pride come between himself and his brother.

At least, she hoped he wasn't.

She sighed and attempted to give herself a reassuring, albeit mental, pat on the back. Ron would be fine. He just needed some time.

Besides, she had other, much more interesting things to ponder. Namely, the fact that not only was Fleur Delacour not really married, she was also interested in women. Particularly, her.

She puffed her cheeks out, scowling down at the shell. Part of her wanted to jump for joy. Part of her wanted to jump off the cliff. She'd been prepared for misery and loneliness and howling into a pillow in the suitably glum Grimmauld Place. The reality she faced included a barbecue and the prospect of ending up in a relationship with a beautiful women who, somehow, found her captivating.

"Expectations always ruin things, don't they," she mused. She was happy, no doubt, to have been proven wrong but she was having a bit of difficulty in diverting her train of thought onto this new, happy track.

"Talking to yourself?" Fleur chided, coming into view beside her. The brisk breeze scattered her fair hair, causing her to raise a slender hand to brush errant strands away.

"Well, it's the only way she'll be guaranteed intelligent conversation, isn't it?" Ginny laughed, picking her way over.

"We're not that bad," Fleur mumbled, "surely."

Hermione turned, swinging her legs over the wall and facing her friends. Ginny was braiding several pieces of marram grass she'd picked, as easy in her own skin as ever she was. Her face was shining with excitement and mirth, warm and welcoming.

Fleur stood still, her hair still flying around her shoulders, squinting slightly into the westering sun. She was smiling and Hermione's throat tightened at the sight. Blood roared in her ears and her heart gave an extra beat. Her palms were damp but her mouth was dry and she felt herself sit up straight.

Suddenly, it was very easy to find the route onto that happy track.

She hopped off the wall and walked over to the pair of witches. "The search party, I take it?"

Ginny grinned and presented Hermione with the little grass braid. "Bill wants you to know the chocolate bananas are ready. Come on, enough sitting on the wall pondering life's great mysteries."

"Thanks, Ginny," she replied, grinning despite herself. Fleur winked at her and she felt her cheeks flare as they started back towards the others.

"You know," Ginny mused, "it explains a lot. About mum. About some things she let slip when she didn't think we were paying attention."

"She is not fond of me, in the slightest," Fleur sighed, sounding a touch aggravated.

"She expected you to what, turn Bill straight? And he you?"

Fleur shrugged in a very Gallic manner. "Apparently so."

Ginny gave a low whistle. "She really over estimates the abilities of her offspring, sometimes, doesn't she."

The three of them laughed the rest of the way back, barely calming themselves as they arrived at the table. Bill and Harry were levitating bananas off the grill and George was opening some more bottles of beer. He handed one to Hermione and Fleur and, after a moment, one to Ginny too. They took their plates and settled around the table, tucking in.

"These are fantastic," George muttered with his mouth full. "Dead good."

"They are, aren't they?" Bill agreed. "I'm telling you. Barbecues are the best way to cook."

"They're mad into them in Australia, aren't they Hermione?"

Later, much later, Hermione wondered at the ease with which they switched between light hearted topics and much more serious ones. How they could be discussing dinner one moment and remembering the fallen the next. How someone could tell a funny anecdote one minute and ponder murderous hatred the next.

It was, she decided, a function of friendship. Of caring. That when people loved you, truly, there were no topics that couldn't be broached.

There were no problems that couldn't be solved.

* * *

><p>"Welcome home!" Harry laughed, pushing the door to 12 Grimmauld Place open. "We've made a few changes since you were last here!"<p>

Hermione's jaw dropped. The hallway was bright and clean, light entering through a stained glass fan light. The floor boards had been scoured, sanded, polished and varnished. The stairs had received a new carpet and the walls new wainscotting. Hermione laughed, delighted by the changes.

"Harry, this is incredible!"

"Yeah," he agreed, moving towards the kitchen, "it's been a lot of work and a ton of cash but it's worth it. I'm working my way up so the top couple of floors are still pretty grim but it's getting better!"

Hermione shook her head, feeling quite optimistic about her new lodgings. "This is unrecognisable!"

Harry shrugged. "You'd be amazed at what you can accomplish with a _willing_ house elf. Kreacher's been a big help."

She lifted an eyebrow at that titbit of news. "Well, I always told you a bit of kindness would go a long way."

"I know," he shrugged. "But you're not going to say I told you so, eh?"

She laughed, sitting at the long table. "I can restrain myself." Harry chuckled as he gathered a pair of handsome goblets and a bottle of wine. Hermione thanked him for her glass and gazed into the hearth fire. She suspected that the drawing rooms were much improved but there was something comforting about the familiarity of the kitchen. It hadn't changed much since last she'd visited, the only obvious addition being a few potted herbs sitting on the window sill.

"So," Harry sighed, "here's to a busy bloody day," he said, smiling as they tapped their wine glasses together. She nodded solemnly, sipping the heady drink.

"It didn't exactly go as planned."

"It would have been nice to know you were coming back," he chided, gently. "I could have had your room aired out."

She shrugged. "I came here this morning but no one was around. I decided to take the bull by the horns and get it over and done with, in Shell Cottage."

Harry frowned, then nodded. "Oh. Yeah. Ginny and Luna called around early. We went out for breakfast, then a bit of shopping. Almost time for Hogwarts." He took a sip of wine himself and peered at his old friend. "Are you going back?"

She nodded. "I have to, Harry. I mean, there is no way I'm not finishing school."

"It'll be strange, though," he said, softly. She nodded, heart stirred by the expression on his face.

"You're not going back?"

He shook his head. "I don't know what I want to do, but I can't go back there." He raised bright, concerned eyes to her. "Will you be OK? I mean, I'm not the only one with plenty of bad memories…"

"No, you're not," she sighed. "But it's something I feel I have to do."

He nodded, quiet for a long moment. Hermione sighed, wondering what the future would hold for all of them. Harry's gaze flicked up at her and she slumped forwards a bit.

"So…" he began, cautiously. "Um, I was wondering, you know…"

She shrugged, dropping her eyes and fiddling with her goblet. "Go on, you've been dying to ask all day," she swallowed. "Thanks for not doing so in front of everyone else, by the way."

He quirked his mouth into a smile. "All that, from Bill and Fleur, that was news to you, too?"

She nodded, glad that Harry was employing even a small amount of tact. "I had no clue, to be honest. I thought, like you did, that they were happily married."

Harry took a sip of wine. "So, um… in the kitchen…"

She rubbed her forehead. "That was… unplanned. I mean, we shouldn't have done that. We were talking about our Patronuses…"

Harry blinked, eyes wide behind his glasses. "The otter Patronus, the second one, that belonged to Fleur?"

Hermione nodded a bit nervously, swiping a hand through her hair. "Yes. She, um, she told me she'd never conjured one before. Not a corporeal one, anyway."

Harry swallowed. "I thought it was Ron. That his had changed."

She blinked, peering up sharply. "Did you ask him?"

He shook his head. "No. It seemed too personal, you know? Intrusive. Especially with everything I heard later, about Snape and my mum."

He let out a breath. "Wow. So….?"

Hermione was quiet for a long while, her chest tightening, partly from excitement and partly from trepidation. "You know what it means, Harry."

He seemed busy trying to keep a smile off his face. "How do you feel about that?" he asked, carefully.

Hermione drew a long draught from her goblet, acknowledging to herself that the question was a good one. She couldn't meet her friend's eyes, fiddling with her fingers.

"It's OK, you know," he said, "I mean, it must have come out of no where, shocked you."

Hermione laughed at that, though to her ears it sounded strange. "Oh, Harry, it did shock me when I found out. But that was a long time before the Battle."

Harry took a moment to think about that, his mouth hanging open. "Um, I think you'd better explain this to me, Hermione. I'm a bit lost."

She leaned forward, tracing a knot in the wood of the gleaming table top. "Fleur and I… We admitted that there was something between us in Shell Cottage. Not long after I got my wand. But we also agreed to not act on it. I mean, Harry," she felt tears fill her eyes. "I thought she was happily married! In love with Bill! The fact that she's a woman was one thing, but that was another entirely!"

Harry blinked again, sorrow in his bright eyes. "They were just pretending."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak yet. Harry took her hand, grasping it firmly. "But they aren't any more."

She squeezed as hard as she could, biting her lip against the tears that threatened to fall. "I know. And now I feel so unsure." She cleared her throat and swiped at her eyes with her free hand. "I mean, when I'm with her, it all seems so much easier. I know what I want but… But everything is happening so fast!"

Harry chuckled sadly at that, running his thumb over her knuckles.

"Whatever you want, you know I'll be here, right? And it might shock them a bit, but your friends aren't going to abandon you, not even Ron."

"He was so angry," she whispered, tears splattering onto the table between them, her earlier confidence fled.

"He was. But he'll get over it," Harry assured her. "He's just, you know how he feels about you."

She nodded, miserable. "And I thought I felt the same way, Harry, for so long. When we were in school, it all seemed destined to be, you know? Fated. But I just… it doesn't begin to compare."

"With how you feel for Fleur?" he asked, gently, "or women in general?"

She bit her lip, meeting his kind, open gaze. There was no judgement or anger there. Just her friend and a place where it was safe to be honest.

Overcome with emotion, she hopped up from her stool and slid around to Harry's side, burrowing gratefully into his chest. He held her firmly, stroking her hair and whispering soothing words to her. She felt like such a fool for not speaking to him beforehand, for fearing his wrath instead of trusting in their friendship.

"Because it's OK," he whispered. "You're still my best friend and the greatest witch I know. You're kind and you care about house elves and people who can't defend themselves. That'll never change. You're one of the good ones, Hermione, and who you love doesn't change that. Well, I mean, if you wanted to run off with Malfoy or something…"

She laughed, a strangled, somewhat hysterical sound. She swallowed thickly and closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of his familiar after shave. She took a deep breath, girding herself. She was filled with the desire to muddle through this, to try and understand her feelings. Attempts by herself had made some small headway but it didn't feel anywhere near sufficient. Perhaps it was time to just act; to talk instead of think. As unfamiliar as the notion was, she began to speak.

"When I was little, I never really thought about the future having other people in it. I wanted to get good marks in school and go to a decent university. Perhaps study physics or marine biology or palaeontology."

Harry chuckled at that and she smiled, remembering her frequent changes in interest. "But then a witch in tartan robes came to my house, with a letter written in green ink and suddenly, the whole world was different. Magical._ I_ was magical.

"But I never felt it. I could do spells, remember entire tomes and was perfectly obnoxious," Harry made a small sound of protest and she poked his side. "I was. But I never _felt_ it Harry. It was all just homework and tasks to fulfill."

She took a breath, her pace speeding as her thoughts began to coalesce in a meaningful manner, finally. "Then I grew up a bit. Everyone around me was wondering about the future, about the people they'd share it with. About the people they wanted to be close to. I hated thinking about that, because I knew that the future was going to hold dreadful things. Horrible things." Harry's grip tightened convulsively.

"The few times that I did think about, you know, romance, I always thought I'd meet some kind, clever man," she sighed. "Not some silly white knight slaying dragons or anything. The other girls, Parvati and poor Lavender, described theirs down to the cufflinks but I never could. It seemed like such an unimportant thing to worry about."

She swallowed thickly. "And he never became clearer. I thought there was something wrong with me. I mean, I just didn't understand what they found so fascinating. I felt as though I was heartless or cold."

"You're the warmest person I know," Harry whispered, squeezing her shoulder. "With the biggest heart."

She laughed sceptically. "Well, I don't know about that." She sighed. "I think Ron was… I think I wanted to fall in love with someone so badly, I convinced myself that I had. Who knows," she sighed, "maybe I did. For a while. I never really spoke about it with anyone, you know. But it made me feel more normal, to have a boy to pine over. And it was complicated by the fact that I care for him deeply, as a friend. If he hadn't been my friend, I doubt I would have latched on to him, you know."

Harry nodded, smoothing her hair. "He can be a bit of a git, can't he?"

She laughed at that. She was quiet then, for a long moment. She opened her eyes and looked into the fire. It was strange, she thought, to have bothered with a fire during such glorious weather. Perhaps Kreacher was responsible. She clenched her teeth and forced her focus back to the task at hand, berating herself for her innattention.

"I did a lot of thinking in Australia. It's a big place, with an enormous sky," she said, wistfully. "It's hard to lie to yourself when you're alone, feeling so insignificant under the stars."

The flames danced before her eyes, cheerful as they writhed around wood and coal. Sparks burst joyfully upwards and she swallowed past a lump in her throat.

"I never felt magical, Harry, not really. Not until we started Dumbledore's Army. I met so many people and for once, I wasn't Hermione the know-it-all. I was teaching, and learning but most importantly, really thinking. Thinking for myself for the first time. It felt like _real_ magic. Like I was coming close to something mysterious and big. Bigger than all of us but dependent on our participation. The stars burn without us, Harry, but spells don't cast themselves."

Harry made an encouraging, though somewhat confused, sound low in his throat. "At the risk of sounding horribly maudlin, that still wasn't a fraction of what I felt with Fleur. Around her, all at once I feel lost in something enormous and endless, that's still small enough to fit in me."

They were both quiet for a long moment before Hermione spoke again.

"When I was in Australia, I spent time amongst strangers. And while I never felt anything like that again, I came closer with women."

She inhaled tremulously, gripping Harry's top with white knuckled fingers. "If I'm honest with myself, it's always been that way." She closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath, her heart pounding in her chest. Her fingers stung with pins and needles, her breathing coming in little gasps. She swallowed, her mouth dry and parched.

"I think I'm gay, Harry," she murmured in a bare whisper. Her heart collapsed, leaving her weak and shaking. She felt suspended in a frozen moment, completely unsure of what was to follow.

Harry just turned to embrace her more fully, kissing her forehead and chuckling. "You think? Will you let me know when you're sure?"

She laughed, a touch affronted by his cheek for gladdened by his gentle teasing. "I will."

He squeezed her again, running a hand up and down her back soothingly. "Thank you for telling me. I know it can't have been easy and I doubt you wanted to do it tonight. So thanks."

She released a breath that was more a sob, relieved tears burning her eyes. Her heart began to beat once more, swelling with nervy excitement and lightened. Unburdened.

"I think I'm straight, by the way."

A much more honest, genuine laugh spilled from her at that and she pulled back. "You think?"

"Well," he said, shrugging, "I wanted to return the favour, you know. In fairness, I am quite sure I'm straight." He grinned a little, lop sided grin. "Though who's to say? Maybe some dashing bloke will sweep me off my feet some day. I mean, you have seen Neville recently, haven''t you?"

She was surprised to hear herself giggling and embarrassed to feel tears rolling over her cheeks. "Thank you, Harry."

"The important thing," he said, handing over her goblet and lifting his own, "is that the only one who gets to say or decide whether you're gay or not, or even how gay you are, is you. And you don't really have to tell us if you don't want to. But I'm very glad you did. And if you want to talk about it more, I'll be here to listen."

Hermione wiped her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest, relief and nerves jangling together. Harry lifted his glass in a silent toast and they clinked them together. He smiled, his green eyes shining in the fire light and Hermione felt a rush of love for her best friend. She grinned back at him, tears still rolling over her cheeks.

"Thank you, Harry."

"Anytime."

* * *

><p>"Well!" Bill sighed, flopping onto the couch beside Fleur, "what a day!" They were alone in the house, the others all returned home. Ginny had tried to wrangle an invitation to Grimmauld Place but had been reminded of the fact that her mother would skin <em>someone<em> alive if she didn't arrive back to the Burrow at some stage.

Fleur rolled her shoulders and nodded in agreement. "That was a bit daunting, wasn't it?"

"Oh well. A story for the ages, eh?" he asked, his eyes shining. Fleur raised an eyebrow at him, taking a long swallow from her beer bottle. He was happy though, appearing younger and unburdened for the first time in years.

"The ages, indeed. Though next time, make some more noise."

"Next time, do not begin to shag your girlfriend beside the only door in the house!"

Fleur felt herself flush. "We were not shagging, as you so bluntly put it."

Bill waggled his eyebrows. "Really?" Fleur shoved him, without malice.

"More to the point, Hermione is not my girlfriend," she retorted.

Bill looped an arm around her shoulders. "Yet," he said, with a sigh. "Ah, young love."

She curled into his side. "Do you remember when I found the note?"

Bill sighed. "Merlin's beard, indeed I do."

Fleur closed her eyes against the sorrow recalled, letting it wash over her mind. After the departure of the Trio, the Battle and Funeral, she'd returned to Shell Cottage with Bill. It had taken days for her to get around to cleaning the bedroom which Hermione and Luna had shared, largely because she was so reluctant to erase the last trace of the other witch from her home. She'd found her favourite blue jumper neatly folded on the bed, a slim volume of poetry within.

Tucked inside the volume was a note, written in Hermione's neat, small hand writing. It had been short and left her wailing in Bill's arms for hours, lamenting the loss of a chance for love. Bill, too, had wept, apologetic and sore with shared grief. Though it had hurt, though they had shouted and roared at each other, it had cleared the air between them, allowing the first steps towards healing.

"I thought, honestly, after everything that had happened in Hogwarts, she'd never want to speak to me again," she confessed. She lifted a wry eye brow. "I cannot over emphasise how relieved I am that is not the case."

Bill hummed his sincere agreement. Fleur sat back, fixing him with a stern gaze. "Hermione deserved better, Bill, and I will be damned if I'm going to make any more mistakes. Even if she decides she wants me as nothing more than a friend, I will not play with her heart any more."

"Good," Bill agreed, nodding.

"So, we need to end this marriage, Bill. She already carries unnecessary guilt, we cannot add to that."

Bill took a sip of his beer, blinking nervously. "Yes… you're right. We do."

"Soon," she insisted, fixing Bill with a stern glare.

"Soon," he agreed, only the faintest shadow of reluctance in his words.

"Tomorrow morning."

He swallowed thickly but nodded decisively. "The, um, we could probably ask dad for a hand with that. All that has to be done is for a declaration of annulment to be submitted to the Ministry and the original licence destroyed. It usually takes three weeks, once you've got the right forms."

Fleur lifted an eyebrow at that. "Well, it's not as bad as a divorce. They take months."

Bill nodded, a bit pale but excitement was flaring around his eyes. "Right. Wow. It's all real, isn't it? We're really going to do this, Fleur."

She clasped his hand and nodded. "We're going to rebuild Philander's legacy and make this nation safe. It will take a long time, but it'll be worth it."

He sat up, bouncing their hands between them. "It will be." He was quiet for a moment, his eyes bright with activity as the future began to take form in his imagination. He laughed gently and turned to her.

"You know, you were a great wife."

Fleur laughed. "Thank you. You were a wonderful husband."

Bill nodded. "Let's hope that next time round, you get the great wife and I get the wonderful husband, eh?"

She laughed, giddy at the prospect. "It will require us to demand that the law of the land be re-written! But I think we're equal to the task."

"Come on, one of our friends defeated the Dark Lord with a disarming jinx. Anything's possible."

* * *

><p><em>F,<em>

_This morning, as I stood in the shower,_  
><em>I found myself thinking; if we were only<em>  
><em>meant to share a single night, why <em>  
><em>could it not have been the winter <em>  
><em>solstice?<em>

_But then I realised that December is not _  
><em>the best time of year to spend a night <em>  
><em>on the beach.<em>

_I'll never forget though, though I do wish _  
><em>the night had been longer.<em>

_H_

* * *

><p>"So…" Harry drawled, from his position on the rug in front of the drawing room fire. "All that time in Hogwarts, when Fleur was driving everyone crazy with her magical charms…"<p>

"She wasn't," Hermione giggled, sipping her wine. "Or she was doing so using her own, naturally bestowed charms."

Harry grunted and drained the last of the bottle into his glass, eyeing it with disappointment. "So she wasn't using her Veela thrall?"

"No," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "I don't even know if she can, not in the manner we saw at the World Cup."

Harry considered that for a moment. They'd just finished the bottle of wine and were well on their way to being quite drunk.

"Is she a good kisser, at least?"

Hermione shrieked with outraged laughter, tossing a small cushion at Harry. Despite the wine, he still caught it one handed.

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"So no, then," Harry sighed, feigning disappointment. "Oh well. She can't be gorgeous, intelligent and a great kisser. That would just be unfair."

Hermione took a sip of wine and clutched a pillow to her chest. "You're trying to trick me into kissing and telling, which I won't do."

Harry cackled, lying on his back with the pillow behind his head. "Well, you wouldn't be able to judge on the first one, anyway."

Hermione spluttered a bit before nodding solemnly. "Yes. It would be foolish to base any judgement on a inadequate data set."

Harry's mouth was hanging open. "Hermione Granger, you are a rotten liar!" he shouted, sitting up suddenly. "That wasn't the first time you snogged her!"

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Don't say snog. It's a horrid word."

Harry scooted over to the couch. "Oh no, tough luck. If Ginny and I snog, you and Fleur snog. What's good for the goose and all." He was quiet for a moment, apparently deep in thought. "And don't try to change the subject! You snogged Fleur Delacour, on multiple occasions."

She glared at him. "You, Harry James Potter, are drunk."

"And you, Hermione Jean Granger, have kissed _two_ Triwizard Champions."

She sniffed, folding her arms with as much dignity as she could muster. "Who said I kissed Victor?"

"Aha!" Harry said, pointing a finger at her, "you did snog Krum! I _knew_ it. But," he said, taking a deep breath, "it's all right. We all do stupid things in our youth." He was, apparently, aiming for magnanimity. Hermione chuckled, though. It was incredible how much more light hearted Harry was, now that the war was over and his soul entirely his own. Besides, hadn't her greatest fear been that her friends would treat her differently if they found out about her and Fleur?

"Though, you know this does make me feel a bit better," Harry mused. "You remember the Polyjuice incident?"

"Which one?"

"The one where there were six other versions of me," Harry said, frowning. "Fleur called me hideous!"

Hermione snorted. "Well, now you know that it wasn't you. Just that you're a boy."

"It was still rude," Harry griped. "Do you think she was just teasing Bill?"

"I think the incongruity of you in Fleur's underwear was enough to put a damper on all but the most ardent perverts." She giggled. "Besides, I don't think you're Bill's type."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You know, it would have been nice if you hadn't all stripped down right there in the living room!" he huffed, indignant.

Hermione chuckled. "It's strange, what seems important now. You didn't care at all about that, before," she reminded him.

Harry chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Well, surviving it all changes your perspective."

Hermione patted his head, toying with strands of his hair. "And allows you access to proper barbers."

"Yes," he agreed, "that too."

They were quiet for a long moment, Hermione playing with Harry's messy hair idly. "Fleur cut her hair, too," Harry said. "And the next thing, you have a new wand with a Veela hair core."

"It's not Fleur's," Hermione clarified. "It's her grandmother's. Fleur's hair was left at the tree where she got the wood for the wand."

Harry was quiet again, staring into the fire. "She must really care for you, Hermione."

"I think she does," she said, quietly. She drew a deep breath. "She told me she loves me, you know."

Harry nodded, not apparently surprised. "From speaking to her, I reckon she means it. She thinks highly of love. Respects it. I don't think she'd lie."

"Neither do I." She finished playing with his hair and reached for her wine, smiling a bit. Harry watched her move, an odd look on his face.

"You're different," he said, quietly. "You've never done that before."

She blinked. "Done what?"

"Fiddled with my hair." He smiled, tipping his head to one side and retrieving his own wine. "Don't get me wrong, it was nice, but it is new."

Hermione frowned, she hadn't even noticed she'd been doing it. "Sorry."

"No, no," he laughed, "I mean it. It's good to see you like that. Affectionate. Did she bring it out in you? You were holding her hand today, on the couch."

She swallowed, nodding. "I doubt it helped matters with Ron. But… it was more important to be there for her than to protect Ron's sensibilities."

"I agree," Harry said, nodding. "It was sweet to see, too. Definite proof that you're not cold, as if you need it."

She shrugged at that, feeling herself blush. "I feel different, you know. I mean, I barely knew I had a secret to keep but it still feels like the weight of the world is lifted, Harry."

"Yeah," he grinned, downing the last of his wine. "I know the feeling."

* * *

><p>"So," Bill yawned. "What will you actually be doing in Hogwarts?"<p>

Fleur yawned as well, tucking her feet under herself and propping her head in her hand. "Acting as a liason between the tribe and the school. What, precisely, this entails, I don't know. A bit of translation, perhaps. Not everyone speaks English, you see."

Bill frowned. "Sounds a bit…"

"Dull?" Fleur laughed. "It will be. But there are other tasks. The Forbidden Forest is tainted. The tribe is staying to restore it to its former state and this will, no doubt, be a most interesting effort."

"Do you think there are still Dementors there?" he asked, worry creasing his brow.

"If there are, they have hidden deep within," she sighed. "But there isn't a way to say no, not until the survey is complete. I had also hoped to update the library in Hogwarts. The Veela histories are not written, but passed from mother to daughter and sister to sister. It may be prudent to actually have some _facts_ about the Veela, rather than superstition and rumour."

Bill nodded. "Like the way they kill any men who fathers a child on them."

Fleur snorted. "Hmm. I know several who would, but they're the exception, rather than the rule."

"Or how they only have one true love and can never be with another."

Fleur chuckled. "Ah, that would certainly simplify matters! Believe me, you have no idea how complicated the affairs of Veela villages can become." She smiled, recalling some ridiculous love triangles from her youth. Her mind wandered, as was its recent wont, to Hermione. She felt her face warm and ducked her head.

"Though, would it be so bad? I mean, finding that one special person and cleaving to them for life?"

Bill smiled wistfully. "No, it wouldn't, would it?"

They were quiet for a moment, each lost in thought as they pondered that. Her eyes slid shut as visions, half imagined desires, fluttered before her eyes. Hermione leaning up to kiss her. Dark hair spread over pale bed sheets. Dropping a quick kiss to the nape of her delicate neck.

"Tell me, Fleur," Bill said, quietly, "what would your perfect woman be like?" A spark of gentle mischief suggested he knew exactly where her imagination had wandered.

Fleur smiled fondly, the memory of happier times easily recalled. They'd been so young! So optimistic and bold. They wouldn't have been able to conceive of the horrors and sorrow awaiting. But, Fleur mused, they wouldn't have been able to predict the happiness either. The joy and moments of delight stolen from dark times.

"Brave. Intelligent. Kind. The kind of person who goes half way around the world, alone, to right a wrong. The kind of person who stands up for those who can't."

Bill chuckled. "Where will we find such a person?"

Fleur was quiet for a while. "Isn't it wrong for me to want to be with her, after everything? After all the lies? I mean, it's not a very sturdy foundation, is it?" She frowned, rearranging herself on the sofa. This had been on her mind for some time, but she'd never been able to pluck up the courage to discuss the subject with Bill.

Bill was quiet for a moment and Fleur wondered if this was something he'd spent time pondering. "No, it isn't. But Fleur, you care. You truly care which is so much more than most people!"

He tipped his head up, staring at the ceiling for a moment. "Most people go through life thinking about themselves the whole time, without once thinking about their own actual existence. Without asking _who am I_ and what the hell am I doing here? But _you_ have. And you may not have any answers yet but there's a kind of empathy that comes from trying, you know?"

Fleur frowned. "That doesn't make sense, Bill."

"It does," he insisted. "Think about it. You try to find your place in the world and realise, in some ways, you're outside it. That in some ways," he took a deep breath, "you always will be. But then you realise it's not just you. We're all outside, really, looking into other people's worlds. All alone but trying, desperately, to find a way in. To make sense of it all. Together."

He took a moment before her spoke again, something in the far-away look of his eyes telling Fleur he'd often considered this. It saddened her, for once they'd shared every thought and idea that sleeted through their minds. She reached out and clasped his knee.

"Because that's empathy, isn't it? Knowing that others exist in a certain way and telling them that you can _see_ that. That you understand and you care."

He smiled, the scars on his face a distant memory and long absent peace softening his eyes. "We've got a long way to go, but you're further along than most."

"Thank you," she whispered, feeling quite unworthy of such praise. "I just don't want to hurt her."

"So don't," Bill replied, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

"Just love her and care for her. Make things better for her. Be there when she needs you and piss off when she needs a break." They both shared a laugh at that, though Fleur sobered first.

She shook her head. "You make it sound so simple."

"Isn't it, though?"

Fleur smiled, her heart warm with affection for her best friend, though she didn't agree with his assessment.

"It _can't_ be that easy."

"Easy and simple aren't the same," he pointed out. "It's simple, but it'll require a lot of effort. But I think you're worthy of the challenge."

* * *

><p>Hermione woke grudgingly, her head sore and mouth dry. She moaned, reaching for the glass of water beside her bed. Sunlight was streaming in through cracks in the curtains,filling her room with golden light. On perhaps any other occasion, she would have thought it delightful. Sadly, given her miserable state, she was tempted to pull the duvet over her head.<p>

She resisted the urge and instead surveyed the room, peering around with bleary eyes. She'd been a bit tipsy the night before, stumbling into bed without paying too much heed to her surroundings. At least, she mused, she hadn't been singing like certain people.

With a flick of her wand, the curtains swished open. The room was quite large and, like those downstairs, was freshly redecorated. The walls were a soft, buttery shade of yellow, complementing the pale stain of the wainscott. There wasn't a lot of furniture, just a wardrobe, chair and double bed. A perfect blank canvas, Harry had insisted.

She sipped her water and ran a hand through her hair, untangling the nightmare of frizz and curls residing atop her head. She lay back down, closing her eyes and pondering the odds of falling back into a peaceful sleep.

They seemed quite high, until she caught a whiff of bacon, wafting enticingly up the stairs. Her stomach growled and, after a brief moment of regret for the comfy nest, she forced herself up and into the bathroom. She wasn't quite sure _how _the en suite fit into the geometry of the house and decided she was probably better off not knowing until she had at least one cup of coffee on board.

Several minutes later, when she wandered into the kitchen, she was utterly shocked to find Luna Lovegood supervising proceedings. The other witch stood at the cooker, calmly frying a pan filled with rashers of bacon, humming to herself as she went. A pair of violet wellingtons were leaning against the back door, as well as a canary yellow parasol.

"Oh!" Luna called, when she caught sight of her. She smiled broadly, genuine happiness clear on her face, "you're back!"

Luna left a pair of bacon tongs hovering over the pan and rushed to her, laughing merrily. She embraced her warmly, wild blonde hair momentarily blinding Hermione. She had some rather magnificent earring that, when Luna tightened her grip, threatened to draw blood. Before Hermione could catch a glimpse, Luna had drawn back, holding her hands gently.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" she asked, tipping her head to one side, presumably to get a good look at her. Hermione fidgeted a bit. If she'd thought anyone other than Harry had been in the kitchen, she'd have showered or at least changed out of her pyjamas.

"Of course you did," she answered, airily, "and you weren't even maimed! Did you know that Australia is home to the Giant Hairy Banksia man? And the Lesser Spotted Venomous Chuddypuff? And the koala!?"

Hermione, who'd encountered one of those creatures and received a nasty scratch, frowned. She knew better than to challenge Luna and, despite herself, felt gratitude sweep over her that she'd avoided banksia groves.

"But, welcome home!" she hugged her again, kissing her cheek fondly. "You look wonderful with a tan, you know."

"I look freckled with a tan," she laughed, touching her nose self-consciously. "But I am home and glad to be back. Delighted to see you, as well."

Luna seemed pleased with that and headed to the cooker top, pouring two cups of strong coffee.

"There, you look like you need that," she teased. "Did you and Harry finish off that bottle of wine?"

Hermione winced. "I suppose we did!"

Luna shook her head. "And the half bottle in the larder, I suppose?"

She folded her arms, determined not to have the blame pinned on her return. "That was opened around the same time we turned on the radio. I blame Kylie Minogue."

Luna frowned. "That seems unfair, especially since I don't see a third glass in the sink! Imagine, not even offering her a drink."

Hermione chuckled at that, shaking her head affectionately. "Harry, it seems, somehow knows all the words to _The Locomotion_."

"Yes," the man in question muttered, stumbling into the kitchen in a grey t-shirt and boxers, "but I wasn't the only one!"

Hermione scowled. Luna smiled beatifically and placed a fresh coffee in front of Harry. "Now, now. No complaining until after bacon butties. They're the second best cure for a hangover."

Harry blinked and sat at the table, apparently unfazed by this invasion of his privacy. Hermione lifted a questioning eyebrow and Harry shrugged. The appearance of Luna in Grimmauld Place was, cleary, a common occurrence.

"Did I forget something, Luna?" he asked, sipping his coffee gratefully. "Were we meant to be going out somewhere?"

"Aside from moderation and the fact that _I Should be so Lucky_ is a far better choice for drunken living room dancing, no, you didn't miss anything," she sighed. "I woke up early and decided to visit. And a good thing I did," she said, firmly.

She slid beautiful, gorgeous, perfect bacon sandwiches onto plates and Hermione felt her mouth begin to water at the sight.

"Left to your own devices, you probably wouldn't have managed a bowl of cornflakes," she scolded. "I don't even know why you keep those things in the house, Harry, when you could have proper food."

Harry, already face first in a sandwich, shrugged, brown sauce falling onto his chin. Hermione, lost in a highly satisfying gastronomic haze, ignored the pair of them. As wonderful as Australia was, they just didn't understand proper bacon sandwiches.

Luna lifted her own plate of food and took her seat, smiling brightly. "It's quite fortuitous I arrived in time to save you from the dreaded Gammer Goblins. Did you know they can turn your eyes yellow and your skin green and salty?"

Hermione, already feeling a bit weepy due to her hangover and the joy of familiar food, felt tears well. She grinned, delighted by and sincerely grateful for Luna's usual nonsense. Despite all odds, despite the wrath of evil folk and the failure of those charged with protection, they'd won. They'd emerged victorious. The worst of the world had been swept away while the best, the bacon sandwiches and silly stories, remained. Friends remained.

They finished their breakfast and Luna quizzed Hermione about her journey, displaying a much better knowledge of Australia than possessed by most folk from their part of the world.

"It sounds lovely," she sighed, "though I do think it'd be strange for everything to be backwards."

Hermione opened her mouth to object when the kitchen door burst open, admitting a blur of red hair.

"You are never going to bloody _believe_!" Ginny squealed, rushing over to the table. She slapped her hands down, face bright with excitement. She glanced at Harry, then back to Luna and Hermione.

Then back to Harry, raising an eyebrow. She shook her head, well used to brothers loitering around in their underwear, and slapped her hands down again.

"So! I was at home this morning, listening to mum rant and rave when the clock, the big bloody clock clicked!"

Hermione blinked, confused. The large clock in the Weasley house possessed a hand for each family member, allowing Molly to keep track of what each member of her family was up to at any given time. Most of the positions were concerned with very boring tasks, such as feeding the hens.

"Oh bugger!" Harry exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. He began laughing and within minutes, tears were rolling over his cheeks.

"What?!" Hermione demanded, quite confused. Ginny was laughing too, while Luna looked on.

"Fred changed the clock," Luna explained. "Molly brought it to Madame Prewitt's with her. It was quite hilarious."

Hermione frowned. She presumed by numbers, Luna meant the short messages saying what people were doing.

"Yeah," Ginny continued. "He changed them to good stuff, like _in prison_ and _in the pub_."

"And _not pregnant_," Harry continued, "Ginny's on that one."

"Thank all that is good and holy," the young witch in question muttered. "It also had a spot saying _just hitched_. That was the point, you see. He charmed it before the wedding, to have a bit of fun with Bill."

Hermione paled. "Oh my." She swallowed thickly. "You don't mean…"

"Bill's _not pregnant_, too. Fleur's _escaping valiantly._"

Hermione sat stock still, her jaw hanging open. She blinked several times. Ginny patted her on the back, sending her falling forward onto the table, narrowly avoiding her plate.

"Yup. So." Ginny grinned. "Go have a shower, I said we'd meet with them at midday."

After much spluttering, complaining, shampooing and nervous outfit selection, Hermione stood shuffling from foot to foot in the drawing room. She was trying to calm her breathing, to slow herself down and actually _think_. Sadly, her mind was spinning in circles, most of which involved a certain amount of mental screeching.

Harry wandered in, yawning broadly. Hermione felt he appeared far too casual and almost demanded he adopt a stern demenor. She managed to restrain herself, but barely.

"Well, that was quick," he mused, grinning widely. "They don't muck about, do they?"

"Harry!" she snapped, glaring, "this isn't a time for joking!" She bit her lip and began to pace up and down. "I mean, what on earth happens now!?"

Luna sighed and stepped forwards, setting her hands on Hermione's shoulders.

"Now we go and meet our friends and congratulate them for being true to their hearts."

Hermione blinked. All at once, a number of things clicked together. Luna and her uncle. Some of the insights she'd provided in Shell Cottage. Her mentions of love between Fleur and herself.

"You knew?" she asked, her voice small and perhaps a bit hurt.

Luna shrugged. "I met Bill and Fleur at pride, once or twice, when Uncle Phil and Tim brought me. But, that doesn't mean anything. I mean, straight people go, too. Neither of them told me anything, so I never _knew_. And one can never presume."

Her grey eyes kind and soft, she lifted a hand to Hermione's cheek. "People are strange, sometimes. They do unexpected things for a variety of reasons. I hope Bill and Fleur will tell me why, someday. But it doesn't matter, as long as they tell the truth to _themselves_. And today they are."

Harry and Ginny draped their arms around each other, grinning like loons. "Come on," Ginny laughed. "We're meeting them in Hyde Park."

* * *

><p>A dog pelted over lush green grass, barking as he ran for a tennis ball. Birds sang in the trees over head, deafening and raucous. An ice cream van played a tune and a group of young people threw a disc between them. The park was quite full, but there were several spare benches available, if one knew where to look.<p>

Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour sat side by side on such a bench, slightly dazed expressions glazing both their faces.

"Well." Bill said, glancing down at the piece of parchment in his hand for what must have been the sixteenth time in three minutes.

"Indeed," Fleur said, several minutes later. Bill handed her the heavy, rough document. Watching as she ran her fingers over the inked letters.

Bill cleared his throat, unsure of what to say or do. "I suppose that's the advantage to having fought along side the Minister for Magic."

Fleur nodded. "We were lucky that the Yeoman Bedel happened to be renewing his unicorn licence."

Bill gave a shaky little laugh. "Yeah. I kind of wish dad hadn't been there, though."

Fleur frowned. "Why not? He was proud of you."

Bill groaned. "Yes, so proud that he proclaimed the fact in front of half the cabinet."

Fleur winced. "Well, he could have phrased it better than _one of the gays_ but he meant well. Besides, it was worth it to see Percy faint."

Bill grinned, heartening. "Yeah, it was."

Fleur smirked. "And that Welsh junior whip seemed delighted with the news."

"He did?" Bill asked, sitting up straight and smiling somewhat foolishly. "Well. He was quite handsome, wasn't he?" Bill, she knew, was completely defenceless against the Welsh accent and she only hoped the junior whip was a decent lad.

Fleur laughed, peering down at the certificate in her hands once more, disbelief on her face.

"We did it." She said, her voice shaking a bit.

Would they both come to regret hiding their true nature for so long? Undoubtedly. Would they regret the chances for happiness that they passed by? Of course. Would they regret the sacrifice they'd made, knowing how many it had helped?

No. Never would they regret the small part they'd played.

For that reason, Fleur felt a tiny stab of sadness at the evidence of dissolution. For all the pain of keeping lies and secrets, they'd accomplished a lot of good. They'd helped antire families and they'd kept vulnerable people safe. Fleur would always be proud of what she and Bill had achieved, there was no doubt about that. Their false marriage would, she knew, always be a source of sorrow, for the fact that it reflected how precarious their social standing would otherwise have been.

At the same time, it was something of a source of pride, too. Their marriage had the shape of a great ruse or clever scheme and had been put to good use, protecting their family. It was a bit strange, she knew, to feel sad about the end of her entirely fake marriage. She sighed. There were many, many other things that could be done to improve the world and the majority did not require lying to oneself.

"And congratulations to you both!" a happy voice called. Fleur glanced up to see Ginny bounding into view, followed by Hermione, Harry and Luna. Greetings ensued, as well as some words of congratulations. Ginny was giddy with delight, regaling them with tales of the Weasley family clock.

"I'm happy for you," Luna whispered in her ear as she embraced her, "but even more happy for Hermione."

Fleur nodded, clasping the skinny witch briefly before letting her go. She'd always suspected that Luna knew more about them than she was letting on but the fact that she _hadn't_ let on when it mattered was what mattered to Fleur.

Finally, Hermione stood before her, tousled hair and a soft, shy expression lighting her face. Her eyes were dark and happy, pleased in a way Fleur couldn't quite comprehend. She was dressed in faded jeans and a green shirt, the sleeves rolled up above her elbows.

"Hello," she said, stepping forwards. A frisson of nerves ran through her and Fleur tucked her hair behind her ear, grinning wryly as she briefly studied her shoes.

"Good afternoon."

The moment was perfect. The air was sweet and rich with the scent of flowers and grass. Hermione was fiddling with her watch and, adorably, scuffing the toe of her runner against a tuft of grass.

"Coffee!" Bill called, grabbing Ginny by the collar. "We need coffee!" he repeated firmly, once he had the attention of all. "Come on, you gang give me a hand."

Before they rightly knew what was happening, Fleur and Hermione were alone. The former clucked her tongue and shook her head. The latter rubbed her forehead.

"They're subtle, aren't they?"

Fleur laughed at that, shrugging. "Well. Their hearts are in the right place."

Hermione shook her head, moving forwards the final few feet and embracing Fleur softly. "I'm proud of you, though it feels strange to say it."

Fleur wrapped her arms around the other witch and inhaled deeply. "I'm so relieved," she whispered, feeling tears of relief well. "I feel like I can start walking forwards again." A sniffle escaped and she was led to sit, a touch embarrassed by her tears.

"It's fine," she assured Hermione, "happy tears, really. This was, after all, always the plan. I just… I never thought I'd be so relieved! I never thought…"

Hermione smiled ruefully. "It'd be so easy? So simple?"

Fleur's eyebrows shot up and she stared at her friend for a moment before allowing herself a moment of mirth.

"Is it simple?"

Hermione nudged her shoulder with her own. "It could be. I think," she paused for a moment, gathering her wits, "I think it should be."

"You and I," she began, playing with the fringe of her beaded bag, "we need to be simple. And honest. Because," she took a deep breath, "there's something between you and I, Fleur."

Fleur nodded, resting her elbows on her knees. "There is, I agree. But there are also some lies.

Hermione was quiet for a long while. She plucked a few blades of grass and began to weave them together, silent as she thought.

Fleur spoke softly, twsting her watch around her wrist. "When you arrived you were so badly hurt. It worried me that I was just going to be another source of pain."

Hermione's frown deepened but was chased away by a smile. "It's not exactly comparable, is it? I mean," she nudged Fleur's shoulder with her own. "I did rather enjoy your company."

Fleur chuckled. "I know. But… Surely in order to assent, you need all the facts. You needed to know what was really going on."

"For the sake of the spell?"

Fleur shook her head, frowning. "What? No! I told you everything about the spell bar, um, you know."

Hermione nodded and Fleur was gratified to notice her blush. "But why, then?"

Fleur shook her head, fair hair flying free. It was, Hermione noticed, a bit longer than it had been. "Because what we did was important. And… and from the beginning I knew I didn't want it to only happen once. This isn't something to do _to_ you, Hermione," there was an edge of frustration to her voice. "It was something to do _with_ you. And for ever more, there will be this lie between us. And…"

Hermione sighed, wondering if they were getting anywhere. "You do remember that I knew that there were things I didn't know. But I trusted you to not let me do something I'd come to regret. And you did.

"I treasure that memory, Fleur. I'll never regret it. We found something good and joyous in the middle of all that misery. I mean… suppose I had known you're gay. What would I have done differently?"

Fleur shrugged, her expression dark. "Run screaming? Demanded I take you out to dinner first?"

Hermione chuckled. "Well, yeah. A date would have been nice. A date would be nice."

Fleur's head whipped up, surprise in her eyes. She studied Hermione's face for a long moment before a bright smile spread over her fine features. "It would, wouldn't it?

"We could try, couldn't we," Hermione said, quietly. "We could see if we're good together during, you know, something resembling normalcy."

"We could," Fleur agreed, leaning more firmly against her. "I think we'd be good together. But you'll have to be patient with me. I'm new to this."

"Me too," Hermione whispered. "We can help each other. It's not going to be easy, is it? I mean, just because Voldemort is defeated doesn't mean it'll be plain sailing."

"It won't be, no. I mean, do you even want to wade into something new right now? What happened yesterday, that wasn't fair to you at all." Fleur sighed. "After all our efforts to keep from outing Bill…"

"I don't want to have to hide, slink around like we're doing something wrong. Like we _are_ something wrong."

Fleur sighed. "You're very brave, you know. You're right. It won't be easy. But I think it'll be worth it."

They were quiet for a long time, enjoying each other's company and warmth. Hermione felt her eyes drift shut and she yawned.

"I think I'm still hung over."

"Oh," called a familiar, and welcome, voice. Hermione opened her eyes to see Harry, Ginny, Luna and Bill in front of their bench, bearing paper cups of coffee and bags of pastries.

"Well, you know what's the best cure for hang overs?" Luna asked, a sparkle of mischief twinkling in her grey eyes.

"I have no idea," Hermione answered, gratefully accepting a coffee from Harry. Fleur took hers from Ginny and shrugged. Bill sat on the grass in front of them, blowing on his steaming beverage, Harry and Ginny joining him after a moment.

"Well, the best cure for a hang over is being pampered," Luna proclaimed, nodding seriously. "Preferably by your girlfriend."

Hermione laughed, fixing her gaze on her shoes. She bit her lip, feeling a bit more daring than usual, and glanced back up. Harry was trying to keep an enormous grin off his face while Bill appeared quite misty eyed. Ginny was providing a theatrical eye roll and Luna was digging through the bag of pastries.

She turned to her side. Fleur was blushing, for once, and wore a gentle, hopeful expression. She was clearly trying to wrestle control of her features, to not appear too eager, and Hermione fond it more charming than anything she'd ever seen. Her eyes were crystalline and filled with excitement, the same delighted excitement that was bubbling up in her own chest, Hermione suspected. Never had she seen her look more beautiful. Never had her radiance and cheer and softness melded so freely. Never had she been so free and unfettered.

Hermione sipped her coffee, trying to wipe the grin off her face. She peered up at Luna and back at Fleur.

"Any idea where I can get one of those?"

Fleur released a shaky giggle that managed to sound incredulous, relieved, delighted and ecstatic all at once. She schooled her features, taking a sip of her own coffee before sitting up and fixing Hermione with a blinding smile.

"You know, I may have a notion."

**The End**

* * *

><p>Dearest Reader,<p>

Thank you for reading this far. Thank you for taking the time. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you have any comments, please leave them. It's always great to hear!

Thanks to everyone who ever left a review. Special thanks to those who enaged in PM discussions. You really helped me flesh this story out and make it better than I could have alone. Extra special thanks to those who sent random, wonderful messages about topics as diverse as midwifery and sugar peeps! You all rock.

Everyone should also head over and read Ressick's tale, which is fantastic! It's called A Meeting of Equal Halves and is full of win. It made me utter strange, high pitched sounds of glee and will do that same to you!

Will there be more? I hope so! There's plenty of room to play with these two and I hope to revisit them. Throw on an author alert to be kept up to date, if you wish!

Again, many thanks. Thanks for sticking through the whole thing. As I said at the start, if you have stories of your own; tell them.

'Til next time,

W


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